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A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Paper, .jo 
Cloth, $1.00 


For Sale by all Booksellers, or sent, on receipt of price, by 
THE PEN PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


Orders by mail to P. O. Box 1107. 


A 


ACHELOR’S WEDDING 

TRIP 




BY 



"Those dulcet sounds in break of day 
That creep into the dreaming bridegroom’s ear 
And summon him to marriage ” 

Merchant of Venice 


• 3 ^ 



Philadelphia 

THE PEN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1888 


09- 5/Z 6 



I, 


% 


Copyright 1888 

BY 

The Pen Publishing Company 


All rights reserved 


t 


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f 


Press 9f 

Times Printing House 





To THE Unmarried 


As Instance of the Bliss which may be Theirs 


AND 


To THE Married 


As Reminiscent of The Trip 


These Threaded Sketches are Fraternally 


Dedicated 


BY 


The Author 


C O N E N 'r s 


Chapter Pagi 

I. WHITHER ? ] 

II. HOW ? 

III. HOW, ' . I- 

IV. MARRIED 1/ 

V. THE PROGRESS BEGINS, IC 

VI. MATTAPOISETT, AND THE PROFESSOR, ‘It 

VII. BOSTON 35 

VIII. TO PORTLAND; AND PORTLAND, 4C 

IX. fabyan’s, 47 

X. MOUNT WASHINGTON ; A STORY, AND A LEGEND, . . 52 

XI. THE GLEN HOUSE, AND AN ESSAY, 89 

XII. VARIOUS ITEMS OF INTEREST 97 

XIII. TO MONTREAL, I04| 

XIV. MONTREAL, AND A FEW OF ITS PECULIARITIES, ... IOC 

XV. STEAMER TRAVEL ON THE ST. LAWRENCE, II5 

XVI. A TYPICAL FRENCH-CANADIAN TOWN, AND A CHILD’S 

STORY, 1 15 

XVII. A PICNIC, AND STORIES AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE, . . 1 33 

XVIII. AN EXCURSION ; SOREL, AND THE PINES, I52 

XIX. ONWARD, AND A DISCUSSION, 1 59 

XX. OTTAWA, 172 

XXI. STEAMER AGAIN, AND GRAVEYARD VAGARIES, . . . 181 

XXII. EXCITING — TO US 1 86 

XXIII. QUEBEC, AND THE FALLS OF MONTMORENCY, .... I94 

XXIV. THE CASTLE OF ST. LOUIS ; THE EXPECTED, AND 

HOME, 202 

\ 

XXV. EPILOGUE, 209 


/ 


INDEX. 

Pagb 

THE BATTLE OF LIFE FOR THE MANY, 29 

THE DENT DU MIDI, 55 

THE BRIDE OF THE DEAD, 8l 

A DISCOURSE UPON MODESTY, 94 

NATURE REFLECTS OUR MOODS, 97 

THE LEARNED DEAD, : . . . . ICO 

WARNING, 103 

THE JOURNEY HOME, 1 24 

A NIGHT HUNT, 1 38 

LORD ETHELBERT : HIS QUEST, I45 

THE SPIRITS OF FIRE, I48 

I LOVE MY LOVE I 56 

ON THE EDGE OF NIAGARA, 166 



THE APOLOGY FOR THE BOOK. 


Upon the flames that licked the glowing logs ; upon the wreaths 
of fragrant smoke that floated above my head, fair Theory 
sported in merry mood, while sombre Practice shrank abashed 
into a shadowed corner of the room. 

“Hail, Queen of Hope!” I cried. “Show to me visions 
of that wedded life which thy sweet beckoning lures so many 
maids and men to seek with eager feet and hearts at bursting for 
the radiant prize.” 

They came. But cold-eyed Practice said, “ They are but 
air ! ” and darkening mists arose where all was light. And in 
them figures stalked — shapes of alloy — and Joy was dimmed ; 
but on her brow one star shone pure and bright. A star ? a face ! 
Love lit the glorious eyes ; and on their beams my soul was borne 
to heaven. i ^ 

******** 

The fire was out : grey ashes in my hand ; and Practice, close 
beside me, said again, “All was but air I” 

Then Theory, wailing, cried, “ Nay, ’tis not true ! All was 
not air! Limn with thy pen the visions thou hast seen: voice 
with thy pen the 'whispered words of love, the tender, hidden 
thoughts mirrored for thy view; and they who read, comparing 
their own lives, shall cry with me. Love lives and reigns, the 
Monarch of the World ! But Practice shook his head. 

And so the Book was written. 

The Author. 

Philadelphia, May i, 1888. 










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A 

BACHELOR’S WEDDING TRIP. 


CHAPTER I. 

Whither ? 

I AM to be married. Ht)w, in the time long past, that fact — 
not thewed and sinewed as a fact near grown, but soft and rosy as 
a babe .of thought — steeped all my mind, my inner self, and soul, 
in that soft, hazy light in which glad dreams are bathed. How 
like a mirage over the arid desert of my life, trembled and glim- 
mered the vision of that bliss to be. Toiling over the parched and 
thirsty sands of this work-a-day world, how the cool and peaceful 
groves by the living springs of joy in that phantom world, lay 
luring and calm before my longing eyes ; and as the months went 
on, and I drew near and ever nearer to its flower-deckedToveliness, 
it did not vanish from my gaze, but took on newer beauties, showed 
me rarer flowers, cooled my fevered soul with the zephyrs from its 
peaceful glades, and nerved me on the way that led to its sweet 
heaven. 

Yes, I am to be married. The day — shadowy, more distinct, 
now sharply cut — is here at hand, and, like a giant, awes my puny 
self with the immensity of its imminence. I sometimes think 
when I view the vastness of its brightness — I can not say, Jemima 
would not have me say, its shadow — I sometimes think how like 
the genie in the coffer that the lucky fisherman fished up from the 
sea, is this coming day. It was sealed within my maiden’s heart 
with the sacred seal of her sweet modesty. Having won that heart 
from the cold depths in which it lay, and brought it up to the light 
and warmth of love, my purpose, held in five potent words, 
unlocked the seal, and the faintly spoken word became this 


s—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. I. 


coming day, which, small and hardly seen, has spread and spread, 
until it fills the horizon of our lives. 

Jemima — that is her name ; and is she not indeed my dove? 
— (her father’s name is Job) — Jemima and I, sitting atone end — 
not at either end — of that most deliciously comfortable, high- 
backed, old hair-cloth sofa, against whose relegation, from its dim 
corner in the parlor, to the attic-limbo, we had successfully pro- 
tested — oh, when will the march of improvement learn that old 
hair-cloth (when it isn’t prickly), upon its softened springs, is 
better, far better, for engaged purposes, than high-sprung plush 
or silk.? — Jemima and I, I say, sitting as aforesaid, had often 
speculated upon the coming Trip ; and latterly had consulted 
guide-books and time-tables, but without much success, for each 
route, as it newly presented itself to our inquiring minds, had 
seemed more pleasing than the last. 

Now to see Jemima examine a guide-book or time-table or 
prospectus of travel, is simply delicious. With an air as if the 
fate of nations depended upon her administrative capacity, she 
bustlingly, yet determinately, removes all the books and pamphlets 
from the library table ; brings two chairs for herself and me ; 
places the shaded lamp at the further side of the table in the exact 
centre ; walks with decision to the book-case, and returns there- 
from hugging to her breast a huge atlas, containing all the known 
and improvised countries of the world, her face, as serious as that 
of a child, appearing over the top, and lays it with a decisive drop 
on the table, where, spread out at the map of the world, it may 
form a geographical foundation for the superstructure of printed 
guides and finger-posts. Then she seats herself and says, “ Now, 
John, bring them here;” and the guide-books and time-tables are 
laid before her. Then is chaos come again ! She opens the books 
at all possible and impossible places — mostly impossible — and 
dartingly searches for the corresponding schedule, laying it out- 
spread upon its open book, and patting both into quiescent flatness ; 
interspersing this preparatory work with preoccupied reproof, as 
“John, you can't get your chair any closer,” and “John, now you 
really mustn’t — this is business !” and “Oh!” (an interruption of 
speech) “you’ve made me” (another interruption) “lose my” 
(still another) place! John, if you don’t stop, we’ll never plan 
out the trip. — Oh, how I love you!” and a pair of arms that an 


Chap. /. 


WHITHER f—j 


houri might envy are flung around my neck. “Aren’t you 
ashamed of yourself, John ! Now be good and go to work ” — and 
time-tables reign upon the throne of her mind. 

As I lean back in my chair and smoke — smoking is allowed 
in the library — father Job’s cigars are good — as I lean back and 
smoke, I gaze at her pretty bent head, and note how her nature’s 
gold shines in the soft, brown waves that flow back from her low, 
fair forehead under the lamp’s mellow light ; note the perfect 
curves of shoulder and of bust, of rounded arm and slender 
waist ; hear in my soul the beat of her tender, faithful heart, and 
know that every beat is for me ; dream of the coming Day and of 
all days beyond, until my love so folds and guards her round, that 
never shall a sorrow pierce her lovely breast to wound the heart 
that lies so happy there. 

However, as to the reachable part of the inhabited globe, we 
are in a state of chaos ; and therein, as many times before, we 
found ourselves one evening, and therein I left Jemima. 

Alone the next day in my office, I determine to wrestle with 
the problem myself. 

My mental gaze instinctively turns toward Europe. “ Been 
there once,” says Memory. “ Too expensive,” cries Pocket.. 
“ Can’t spare the time,” sugg’ests Business. Given up. 

Before said gaze rise the peaks and plains of the Far West. 
Instantly vetoed by Pocket. 

From the South long, quivering lines of heat radiate into the 
fevered air. “ It might be as well to go where the position of 
principal performer at a funeral does not so surely await one of 
you,” suggests Caution. Wherefore there is but one point of the 
compass left, the North. 

Memory shows me frozen rivers, snow-buried plains, wintry 
cities, fur-clad inhabitants. But Expectation calls up rivers that 
grandly flow through forests whose leafy tops beckon to a summer 
sky ; plains that lie yellow-green beneath a glowing sun ; moonlit 
streets filled with gay life; summer vestments that but reveal the 
graceful forms transplanted from Gallic soil, and light that flashes 
from dark brown eyes, and the soft tu toi that falls from rosy lips 
(I am not married yet). 

From the bare and echoing halls of the ancient mansion, in 
one room of which I sit, day by day, waiting for the litigious fly. 


4— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. /. 


ghostly sounds come to my awakened mental ear. Light feet trip 
down the stairs to the music of gay laughter. The old mahogany 
doors swing open and short-waisted dames and girls walk in, 
upon whose white shoulders and arms the light from the candelabra 
falls soft and mellow, brightening youth and rejuvenating 
age. Chariots roll over the uneven pavement, and deposit their 
gay loads at the open door. Smiling guests bow and curtsy, and 
the strains of the minuet arise. The night grows old and dies, 
and the young day awakes in the brightening east. The chariots 
depart with their still gayer loads ; but the guttering candles and 
drooping flowers of the feast remain ; these too fade away, and I 
am alone. But as my eyes light upon the long rows of dry and 
musty books that stare at me from the walls, dreamy imagination 
again takes the rein';. The skins upon the lettered backs grow 
soft and woolly, and the long-defunct sheep sport and gambol 
over a fairy sward. 

The labored and neglected brief drops from my hand : the 
woes and virtues of Plaintiff, and the oppression and general 
rascality of Defendant, have no place in my mind : the North 
and our Trip thereto reign with absorbing sway : Inclination, 
Business and Pocket are for once agreed ; Decision witnesses the 
contract, and I fly, in company with a green bag,* to oust Chaos 
from Jemima’s mind, and to install therein orderly Purpose. 

*In Philadelphia the lawyers .still follow the old English custom of using cloth bags 
of various colors, generally green, in which to carry their books and papers. 


CHAPTER 11. 


How ? 

The interrogation point having been successfully removed fiom 
Whither, How ? was a problem which, while being of lesser mag- 
nitude and not staring one in the face, yet loomed sufhcientb tall 
and looked at one inquiringly. And having, in some measure,) 
answered that look, leaving, however, the fiat for Jemima’s )icld- 
ingly determined lips, I walked out Hickorynut Street toward the 
residence of my respected father-in-law-to-be ; and as I walked, I 
mused. 

What, at the time, seemingly minute and unimportant things 
direct the whole character of a man, a community, a nation ! How 
unnoticed is the breeze which, blowing softly yet steadily, bends 
the leaf-burdened shoot, just starting into life, in that direction 
which its firmer growth follows unchangeably. Thus with the 
social life of this great City of Brotherly Love. Time was when 
two streets were laid out, and began to grow from the larger river 
toward the smaller ; the one that we call Arc, the other this 
Hickorynut. Upon the broad space of the one, the merchant 
princes of those days, whose purple was the sober grey of Friend, 
and whose carefully gathered gold was garnered in ground-rent 
and mortgage, built their great and melancholy houses and lived 
therein, their lives a reflex of their cold and rigid garments, and 
their motto — 

“ The chief end of man 
Is to keep all he gets 
And get all he can,” 

On the other, and fronting the State House and the Courts, 
the lawyers and other professional men built — or generally had 
built for them, and rented — their modest habitations, in which 
they and their educated spouses dwelled, using the first floors for 
their offices : and there they — or most of them — “ worked hard, 
lived well, and died poor.” 


6— A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. II. 


“ Like father, like son ” is not always the case, and some of 
the offspring of the aforesaid princes proved the exception. For 
here and there a young man clave not to the sad-colored “ shad- 
belly,” but donned “ worldly ” garments, and wildly dissipated, 
now and then, with a mug of ale and a pipe, or perchance a glass 
of wine from over the sea; and being, in such ungodly company, 
brought into contact with those children of the devil yclept lawyers, 
departed from the meeting-house traditions of his fathers, and 
began his damnation by listening to music — albeit that of hymns — 
in those buildings idolatrously called churches, presided over by 
“an hireling priesthood,” and finished it by falling in love with 
and marrying a damsel “ in the world ” ; and being thereupon, 
and promptly, cast out by his own people and “read out of meet- 
ing,” hied him to the atmosphere of his father-in law, and settled 
down into a respectable father of a family, with Episcopal and 
literary tendencies, although in (a branch of) the paternal trade. 

And herer and therer a maiden eschewed the kerchief and 
poke-bonnet for ribbons and a feathered hat ; and being likewise 
(but theoretically) cast out, learned to play the spinet, and married 
a denizen of Hickory nut Street, and brought her Quaker virtues 
and (after the death of her father) her Quaker pounds, to glad the 
heart of her lawyer husband. 

Thus Educated (comparative) Poverty and Uneducated 
Riches spread and spread Westward in their respective localities 
on the South and on the North of the Market Street ; and incomers 
to the town came and dwelt in the one or the other, according to 
their several bents. But Uneducated Riches, as they became com- 
paratively educated, yearned to migrate Southward, and some- 
times did, but not always to the satisfaction of their socially ambi- 
tious souls ; for the Southrons ofttimes held themselves aloof, even 
to the second generation. But Educated Comparative Poverty, 
even when it became Comparative Riches, stayed where it was 
born, and flourished, content to eclipse its educated poorer 
neighbors. 

As Educated Poverty became comparatively rich, and found 
its office-dwelling too circumscribed for its needs, or too plain for 
its desires, it moved its dwelling Westward, as I have said, but 
always on one narrow line, using its former habitation for its own 
and others’ offices. Wherefore, and from the eager influx of 


Chap. II. 


HOW?— 7 


Comparatively Educated Riches, on social distinction bent, to this 
Hickorynut Street, it became in time the abode of those whose 
social place or aspirations were fortified with the wherewithal to 
maintain or further the same, and therefore the centre (or Mecca) 
of the social life of the town. And as time went still further on, 
and riches immigrated all around it, and advertised their presence 
with silks and satins, and bore those advertisements in new and 
shiny carriages behind new and gold-shiny steeds. Educated Com- 
parative Poverty found itself very comparative indeed ; but, far 
from acknowledging the fact, magnanimously (and joyfully) ate 
of the feasts provided by the immigrants, paying therefor, not in 
kind, but by the light of its countenance and countenance ; which 
pay was received, not only with enthusiasm, but with gratitude ; 
and was, by Comparative Poverty, accounted pleasing, as means 
of gratifying the senses, and economical, as lessening the domestic 
evening meal, and shrewd, as the fund, nurtured at the expense of 
the payee, was practically inexhaustible. 

And as then, so' now. 

As I walk out the street, I pass by or near the residences of 
some immigrants now socially prosperous, whose souls recoil from 
the unwelcome ghosts of their immediate ancestors whenever they 
are by any mischance raised into conversational life, (their more 
remote, poor things ! are not even possessed of so much of a ghost 
as lies in a mere name) ; but the lips of these immigrants halo 
these ghosts in the nimbus of time that has passed. And as I 
walk, some of these ghosts stand on fashionable doorsteps, or 
enter fashionable houses, or pass down fashionable side streets. 
Among them are several that I recognize. There is old McMortar, 
bearing the hod in which he transmuted the mixed lime and sand 
and cows’ hair into the gold with which he built up for himself 
and his progeny a fortune, and so a name. And near him is the 
still older Malzhaus, with the odors of his brewery still clinging to 
his ancient garments, standing at the door of his offspring, the 
anglicized Malthouse. And passing him arm in arm, and bowing 
as they go, are the younger Yardstick and Purerye, whose children 
and children’s children roll by in their carriages, but carefully 
avoid seeing them, almost grazing, as they pass it, a great dray, 
whereon the word “ Manufacturers ” is prominently lettered, upon 
which, beside the drayman in the flesh, sits the drayman in 


8 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. II. 


the spirit, looking backward with pride upon the productions of 
his sons. 

But, as I turn to look after the dray, what a funnily pathetic 
sight is before me. Comes striding up the street from his counting- 
room, Blockyourhatwhileyouwait, serenely fashionable ; while at 
his elbow, but all unseen except by me — and perhaps by his son — 
the elder Blockyourhatwhileyouwait shambles obsequiously on, 
trying a shadowy new and shiny hat on his shadowy head (which 
seems to have all the sizes notched upon it) in the manner of his 
craft, and, apparently satisfied, pressing it upon the acceptance of 
his oblivious son. 

Here, ringing the bell of a handsome house, is the deceased 
Nineoneman, carrying over his arm, as was his wont in youth, a 
just-finished suit of clothes, which will evidently fit his grandson. 
And as he stands waiting for the appearance of the liveried servi- 
tor, I. Parem, conscious of his financial and (therefore) social 
position, drives up, and stops for an afternoon call ; and with him 
descends from the dogcart the ghost of Isaac Parem gone. As 
they ascend the steps, Nineoneman starts, and then, after fumbling 
in his diaphanous pocket for an instant, presents to the ghost 
Parem what I recognize as his “ little bill,” with an air as he 
would say, “ I’ve found you at last ! ” Old Parem is disconcerted, 
evidently ; but a bright idea soon suffuses his wrinkled counte- 
nance with a triumphant glow that extends even to the tip of his 
elongated nose, and makes the little snaky locks upon his par- 
tially bald old pate fairly wriggle with satisfaction. In his turn he 
fumbles in his pocket, and produces therefrom an ancient wallet, 
bulky with overmuch contents. This he opens deliberately, while 
Nineoneman eyes him somewhat aghast, and takes from it a soiled 
and much-worn promissory note, still attached to its protest notice, 
which, as he holds it before Nineoneman’s nose, I can see is drawn 
payable to another than himself, though bearing Nineoneman’s 
signature; and on the note is jotted in pencil, “discounted at 20 
per cent.” Old Nineoneman drops the bill and the clothes, which 
vanish, and makes a grab for the note ; when the two ghosts 
grapple and, struggling, float off into space. 

Oh ghosts that will not down, but rise, ofttimes in workman’s 
garb, to shame, because ashamed, your gold-buoyed posterity ! 
How ye must look in homely scorn upon the hearts that would 


Chap. 11. 


HOW?—g 


disown the hands that raised them to their present eminence, or 
else would trick those hard and horny hands in ill-beseeming 
gloves of conjured rank and elegance ! 

But, to the praise of some of the living be it said, all ghosts 
are not besought to down, but have household altars raised for 
their worship and convenience. For, in the parlor of the McMor- 
tars, does there not stand a graceful vase of massive brass in shape 
like to the ancestral hod, filled with rarest flowers in propitiation 
of the spirit of the dead 1 And does not his famous (?) son descant 
upon the constructive ability of his first ancestor ? Does not the 
graceful wife of the genial Malthouse turn with pride the spigot of 
the silver keg which, upon occasions of high state, is placed 
before her on the board, and serve therefrom the beer-soup of the 
departed’s fatherland to her delighted (?) guests ? And has not 
the courtly Blockyourhatwhileyouwait placed, as ornamental cap- 
ping, over the largest mirror of his home, the ancient sign of the 
progenital shop, embellished with headgear done in tarnished 
gilt ? Yea, verily : and thereby are the manes of these ancestors 
well happified, and therefore do they still the rattle of their sound- 
ing bones when sitting at the feasts of their rich progeny. 

But all ghosts are not so well happified. I reach, as I walk, 
a carriage, upon the door-panel of which is emblazoned a coat of 
arms, quartered. Paternal, a lion, rampant, upon a field blanche. 
Maternal, a broom, couchant, upon a field blanche. As I stand 
for an instant, curiously inspecting the same, a courtly ghost walks 
leisurely down the street, and upon the breast of his long cloak, 
which is thrown gracefully over one shoulder, I see a lion rampant. 
His eye evidently catches the emblazonment, for he stops, and 
coming toward it (I step one side to give him room), looks at it 
intently. A scowl darkens his swarthy face, and he shakes his 
fist at the panel. He is gone ; but in an instant reappears, carrying 
in one hand a shadowy pot of paint and in the other the ghost of 
a brush. He dips the brush in the paint and, with a bold hand, 
strikes across the emblazonment the dread bar sinister. A caustic 
smile then flits over his face, and he passes on. 

.Lucky it is for the owners of the equipage, I think as I like- 
wise pass on, that it is not to the general world that that bar sinister 
is visible, but only to those able to see ghosts ; and they, fortu- 
nately, are few. 


lo—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. II. 


But now I reach Jemima’s door, and mount the broad, old- 
fashioned, marble steps, my hand on the narrow, curlyqueued, 
wrought-iron railing, and reach the old-fashioned door, white with 
the softened whiteness of innumerable coats of white paint, and 
am somewhat bespattered by men painfully cleaning, with sand 
and water, the marble trimmings of the old red-brick mansion. 
I wonder why the immortal William (not he of the plays — far from 
it ! — but he who gained by courtly intrigues the principality wherein 
to establish his adopted brethren upon the principle that all men 
are free and equal), I wonder why he, if he did, set the custom of 
brick adorned (?) with marble ? Perhaps to typify the palace and the 
plough. Perhaps to give the good housewives something, and yet 
not too much, to do. Perhaps — and yet perhaps he had nothing to 
do with it. Perhaps some one began to build with marble and was 
not able therewith to finish, and so eked out his desires and pocket 
with the cheaper brick, and his economic shift pleased his 
economic neighbors. Whatever the cause, the result remains: 
brick, with marble steps and trimmings — brick, with marble steps 
and more trimmings — brick, with marble steps and most trimmings 
— ad infinitum et ad 7iauseaj7i. And how many an humble house- 
wife or aristocratic housemaid must curse (in some feminine way) 
the everlasting marble, to be everlastingly rubbed and scrubbed 
and with powder whitened from May until November and from 
November until May ! 

Well, the walk from the office to Jemima’s parlor, through all 
these alleys and by-ways of thought, has been over long. But as 
you sit with me, my reader, in the library firelight after dinner, 
and watch Jemima’s animation as she plans The Trip to my 
objective point, the North, you will, with me, forget the prosiness 
of the way hither, and remember only, with her, that the journey 
of her life is to come. 

“ You see, John, we’ll have plenty of time to catch the two 
o’clock train — that isn’t the Limited, you know, for I must help 
you save from the very.start — now I’m sure papa heard that ; you 
mustn’t so loud! Yes, we’ll be really economical — those new 
parlor cars are so nice, you can get a whole section by buying six 
seats ; and then with the curtains drawn front and back we shall 
be so cozy — now what are you smiling at ? I wish you would stop 
making those absurd rings, just to see how far they’ll float before 


Chap. IL 


HOW?— 1 1 


they break, and pay a little attention,” and the pretty mouth 
begins to curve a little hurt. 

” You darling,” I say, as I fling my cigar into the fire and 
draw my chair near hers, taking good care to bring myself between 
her and pater and mater familias reading by the table, ” you 
darling, you shall have two sections if you want them, and” — 
taking her hand in both of mine, as it lies on her knee — ” we will 
have the curtains drawn, and you shall repose your head on my 
shoulder the whole ” 

“Now, John, you’re horrid! Shoulder indeed!” with a 
fascinating toss of her gold-brown head. “ And then — ” plung- 
ing into the former interest — “ then we’ll reach New York in good 
time for dinner, and the next morning we’ll take the boat up the 
river to Albany, and there won’t be any dust, and you can sit on 
the forward deck and smoke all day if you want to, you old dear ” 
— with a little squeeze of my hand — “ and I will sit with you ” — 
the squeeze returned — “ and the next morning we’ll go by train to 
Whitehall, and then by boat down the lake, and then the St. 
Lawrence, and then Montreal, and then — oh John, won’t it be 
lovely ! ” 

“ Lovely ?” I cry, starting forward — and I think that in about 
one second more she would have been in my arms, father and 
mother Job notwithstanding, if a dry cough from behind a maga- 
zine at the library table had not brought me back to reality and 
nineteenth-century manners, 

“ Papa,” said Jemima, finely renderingthe conversation general, 
“ how did grandpa and grandmamma take their^wedding trip ?” 

“Well, my dear,” said father Job, slowly coming over — 
“take a fresh cigar, John. Well, my dear, they didn’t have 
sections ” 

“ Oh, papa, you haven’t been listening,” she cried, with the 
mist of tears in her, voice, “ you surely haven’t been listening ?” 

“ No, no, I assure you,” replied he with emphasis. “ No, my 
dear, I had been reading about sections and curtains ” 

“Oh papa!” 

“ And such things, that’s all. No, your grandfather and 
grandmother didn’t have those convenient accessories to solitude, 
they only had your great grandfather’s light carriage and pair, 
and made the journey to New York in two days.” 


12— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. II. 


“ Then for two whole days they were a — ” cried Jemima, and 
stopped short. 

“ Lone, my dear,” supplied father Job gravely, while mamma 
Job shouted, and I joined in as heartily as a certain sheepish sense 
of mental complicity would allow. 

“ And then,” he continued, patting her on the head, “they 
left their horses in New York, and took a trip of a week or so on 
a fast passenger boat on the Erie canal, to see the country, and 
came back to New York, and so home.” 

“Oh, wasn’t that delightful, mamma ! ” cried Jemima. And 
when the elders had retired — which they sometimes considerately 
did early — she and I talked on in the firelight of the journey that 
was to be for us alone, yet never lonely; of the longer journey of 
which that was to be the type, whereon we two — and in both our 
thoughts, perhaps, we, more than two — should journey, till, both 
past the bounds of Time, our way should lie thus, hand in hand, 
along the pleasant paths of vast Eternity. 


CHAPTER III. 


i 

How. 

“John,” said Jemima, an evening or two afterwards, “would you 
like to look at Algy Smitten’s letters before I burn them 

“No, my dear,” I replied, with an emphasis that I tried to 
make sound magnanimous, “ no, that little episode belongs to you 
and Mr. Smitten — it is your property — and as I wouldn’t care to 
have him triumphantly peruse my letters, if you should jilt me, I 
will do as I would be done by, and his letters shall be resolved 
into their constituents — gaseous, mostly — without my inspection.” 

“And you won’t feel' even the least bit jealous hereafter — 
you’ll believe that I didn’t love him the least little particle ?” she 
said^ coming close to me, and laying her two small hands on my 
shoulders, and looking up at me with anxious, love-lit eyes. “You 
know, dear, that I love you with all my heart and soul, and that I 
never have — ” but the rest of the sentence was smothered in my 
arms, and her lips were otherwise employed than in talking. 

The Smitten affair had always troubled me a little — at least 
until I had learned to read my dear girl’s heart thoroughly ; then 
I was troubled no more, except by a small heart-ache when I 
thought that any one had ever been in a manner licensed to love 
her, even though that love had not been returned — even although 
brother Smitten had been tearfully; yet firmly, given his congk 
soon after I appeared upon the scene. As it was, I felt rather a 
friendly pity for Smitten, as for one who, filled with high emprise, 
had gallantly attempted to storm the beleaguered city, only to be 
beaten back with sundry wounds and bruises, the garrison having 
refused to capitulate. But I fear that he cherished for me some- 
what of the rancor that the aforesaid defeated stormer might 
have felt toward a relief party to whom his defeat had been largely 
due. 

Now Jemima’s question as to Smitten’s letters unlocked sun- 
dry small closets in my memory, and several ghosts walked out, 
with more or less unpleasant clatter of their dry bones, holding in 


14 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. III. 


their extended bony hands, some letters, some photographs, some 
odds and ends of faded flowers or half-worn gloves or bits of 
ribbon or dainty handkerchiefs, as challenging my attention and 
upbraiding my forgetfulness. Wherefore I resolved to, and 
shortly after did collect these various mementos, and sat me 
down before my blazing fire, to cast upon its pyre of logs the 
relicts of dead memories. 

How hard it is to totally destroy these little links that bind us 
to a tender past! How this small glove recalls the hand it once 
so daintily encased ; recalls the clinging pressure of that hand — 
the moonlit nights sweet-laden with the breath of sleeping 
flowers, and vocal with the insect voices which but accent the 
stillness that lies brooding over all the land. How this pressed 
wild flower brings to mind the walk across the grassy fields, and 
what we said and looked on that bright summer day. This once 
gay knot, all worn and crumpled now, the trophy of the hard- 
fought fight that won the belle of all the ball, and bore her in the 
mazes of the waltz from eager hands that claimed her. These 
letters — ah, these letters! Burn them all — letters and glove and 
flower and crumpled knot ! How the flames curl over them { 
How they seem to stretch out shadowy arms, calling for help from 
a once loving heart ! Burn them all ! So shall the past be swept 
from out my life, to leave the present and the future clean and 
clear for the footsteps of the only one whose right it is to walk 
therein — a queen. 

Thus it was that I began to put my bachelor life in order — 
to settle up its bankrupt estate, that with the one piece of gold 
rescued from its faults and follies, I might start anew — a Benedict. 

Jemima had had many beaux who had yearned, I knew, to 
blossom out into full-blown and accepted lovers. But of these she 
rarely spoke; and I, even I, did not know, except by inference, to 
whom the, for them, fateful No had been said. For this, she said, 
was their secret, not hers ; and I honored her for her reticence. 

I arrived one evening, as was my wont, at father Job’s, and 
was met by Jemima with an air of perturbed resolve. After the 
hair-cloth sofa had gathered us within its comfortable old arms, I 
asked the occasion of that air. 

“Well, dear,” she nervously replied, “I am afraid that — the 
fact is — perhaps our trip ’’ 


Chap. III. 


HO IV.— IS 


“ What ?” I cried. “ Surely our trip isn’t to be given up ?” 

“Oh, no ! Not as bad as that,” she said. “ But Aunt Eunice 
and Aunt Hepzibah and Uncle Robert are with papa and mamma 
in the library, and — oh, John, they want to go, too !’’ and she buried 
her face on my shoulder. 

“ Never !’’ I exclaimed. “What, take those three old “ 

“John!” 

“ Those three respected antediluvians with us upon our first 
journey into the risen world ? Never 1 My dear, notwithstanding 
a profound admiration for your aunts and uncle, I won’t — I simply 
won’t !” 

“ Now John, be a good boy for my sake,” — how could I with- 
stand that caressingly pleading voice 1 — “ and perhaps it will be all 
right. You know they love us both ” 

“ I wish they would moderate the excess of their affection 
until, say, a month after our marriage,” I moodily interjected. 

“John, that isn’t right,” she said. “They do love us. And 
Aunt Eunice is to give us a grand piano, and Aunt Hepzibah a 
pony and phaeton, and then they’ll make such valuable god- 
mothers, and ” 

“ My love I ! ’ 

She turned quickly, and caught my laughing eyes. Over her 
look of blank inquiry swept a crimson flood from neck to brow. 
“ Oh, John 1 I didn’t — ” and with one pathetic, reproachful, horror- 
stricken glance, she dashed from my side and fled away up into 
the library, I following. 

There they all were — father and mother Job, and the two 
aunts, and Aunt Hepzibah’s husband— and them I greeted with a 
smile on my lips, but rage in my heart. 

“Good evening, John,” said Aunt Hepzibah-^how I wished 
they didn’t regard me quite so intimately—" I’m so glad you have 
come. Eunice and I have been talking all winter of taking a trip 
together next summer—” husband Robert was uniformly left out 
of the account by Mrs. Hepzibah in all questions of his own 
volition— " and we have just concluded that nothing could be 
pleasanter than to make you and Jemima of the party, and all 
go together after the ceremony,”— with an authoritative smile, as 
who should say, “ I like you, and am willing, and will, that you 
accompany me." 


i6—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. III. 


“We really are very much obliged,” I replied, sitting down 
beside Jemima, “but ” 

“My dear fellow,” said husband Robert, “ there are ” 

“ Robert ! ” warningly interposed Aunt Hepzibah. “ As I was 
saying, John, there are no buts. Eunice and I will be delighted 
to have your company, won’t we, Eunice ? ” 

“ Certainly,” replied Aunt Eunice, with her silver trumpet at 
her ear — or ratlier her lips were supposed to say “ certainly,” for 
only an attentive listener ever heard what Aunt Eunice said, as, 
like most extremely deaf persons, she spoke very low, her words 
lying rather in her intention than in her vocal act. 

“But — ” I again commenced; when the gentle pressure of 
Jemima’s hand on my arm pleaded with me to accede, and I 
surrendered. So, with as good a grace as I could command, I 
said, “It will give us great pleasure;” and Jemima’s eyes 
rewarded me. 

And so, with a multiplicity of suggestion — husband Robert’s 
invariably squelched — our route to the North — I insisted, with the 
despair of a drowning man, upon the North — was settled, and 
Jemima and I escaped to the hair-cloth sofa. 

There we bewailed our vanished dreams, our ruined plans, 
our dual life alone amid the hurrying crowds, upon the moonlit 
rivers, over the sunny plains, through the shadowed forests. There 
we vowed to dwell as much apart upon the coming trip as our 
enforced companionship would permit, and there we comforted 
each other back to happiness. So that when the good-night kiss 
was left on either lips to breathe its sweetness through our dreams, 
we both looked forward to a journey that even unasked companions 
could not mar. 


CHAPTER IV. 
Married. 


|. The months have narrowed into weeks, the weeks have dwindled 
; into days, the days have shrunken into hours, and the last night of 
bachelor life is here. And like him who with the morning light is 
^ , to set out on his journey to another world, I sit down in my dis- 
I mantled room to view the life that has passed and to think upon 
’ that which is to come. How solemn is the change, how full of 
I awe ! How can a man who, on the morrow, is to join to his hitherto 
separate life another life, for good or evil, for weal or woe, until 
I death the two shall part, think lightly of the change, and go thereto 
as to some transient holiday ? Another life, another soul, another’s 
hopes and fears and joys and sorrows to be so welded to his own, 
that but one life shall stand before the world, shall make the place 
called home, shall kneel before its God. Upon his shoulders shall 
the dual burden fall ; yet not on his alone, but part on hers ; she 
who to him gives up herself, her very self and soul, that he may 
mold it — how ? God grant for happier life while here with him, 
and happiest life with him beyond this world ! 

And yet how like a bubble is our happiness ! It rises, glowing 
iridescent in the sun, and floats gay, buoyant, graceful as a happy 
thought, upon the summer breeze. A puff of harsher wind — ’tis 
gone ; and but a drop — its bright self all a tear — falls in the dust, 
is grimed and fouled, and disappears. Then let us keep the harsh 
winds from our happiness, that it may float, sun lit, upon the air 
of love. 

The blocks are racing as I muse. This quick, short beat upon 
my mantel-shelf ; the slow and ponderous tick down in the hall, 
and neither slow nor quick that in a neighboring room. And ever 
and anon they beat in unison one stroke of sound, then move 
away upon their separate paths ; and yet they all mark out the 
self-same steps of time. A little world of hurrying steps or slow, of 
placid lives or lives that eager run — all to the self-same goal. And 
3 


j8—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. IV. 


I am one and she is one. And yet if our paths lie not too far 
apart, but ever and anon join in one common road, perhaps when 
they both leave the stones and dust of earth to cross the azure arch 
to that fair, flowery world, the way across that arch may be a 
common road, and they be one about that farther sphere. 

The morning has arrived, and the signal service has kindly 
given us a superb day, not too hot, and one that is vouched to 
have no drop of rain. It is entirely unnecessary to say that I am 
up early, and also that I am somewhat flustered, and also that I 
finish packing with a nervousness that I inwardly comment upon 
' unfavorably (to put it mildly), and also that I am at Jemima’s door 
entirely too soon to do anything but hang about in the parlor, 
utterly ignored by the feminine portion of the family, although I 
do catch whiffs of attention from father Job. I wander around 
among the presents, and speculate upon the possibility of using eight 
clocks where we shall probably have place for but five at the very 
utmost, and whether it will do to have the preserve spoons changed 
four or five times during one meal, so as to render it perfectly 
obvious to a guest that we have the number here spread out. I 
then bethink me of the prayer-book — I had given Jemima a 
prayer-book, the covers of which were plates of silver hinged to a 
silver back — and send off a messenger to ascertain whether the 
minister has received it, although I am perfectly certain that he 
has. And just as I have paced the parlor for the forty-second 
time by count, the ushers and my best man arrive, and, although 
I beg hard for just a glimpse of my bride, I am not allowed, but 
am packed off in a carriage, and roll over the stones toward the 
realization of my dreams. 

As I stand by the altar railing (we are a little ahead of time), 
I see my darling float up the aisle like an angel in a flowing cloud ; 
note how all the cherubs on the vaulted roof turn their eyes 
toward her lovingly as she comes, and think that the palms in the 
hands of the angels upon the chancel wall are extended in benison 
upon our bliss. 

Then over my inmost soul surge the waves of a perfected love, 
and madly beat upon my heart ; until, “ Whom God hath joined 
together, let not man put asunder,” falls like the “ Peace, be still, 
upon those rolling waves, and My Wife’s hand lies in mine. 


CHAPTER V. 


The Progress Begins. 

We are at the Broad Street Station. Adieus ad infinitum, and 
trembling upon the verge of ad nauseam. Flowers galore. Candy 
likewise. The gates open, and by a wise dispensation, if not of 
Providence, then of the railway company, only our immediate party" 
is admitted by the liveried seneschal, and we board the parlor car,. 
en route to New York. A chaos of satchels, wraps and umbrellas, . 
gradually resolved into orderly disposal beside the several chairs * 
of the several owners, and into racks. The bell-rope whistle- 
sounds its distant and asthmatic squeak, and the train moves; 
slowly from under the glass and iron of the spanning roof, out: 
upon the network of tracks ; roars over the river, and The Journey 
is begun. 

As Jemima sinks wearily back in her chair, she casts an 
eye upon our party’s belongings, animate and inanimate, and a 
pathetic little smile, just wetting its feet in the margin of tears, 
hesitates upon her pale lips, doubtful whether to go or stay. 

“Hubby dear — ” it is the first time! Ye gods of love and 
longing! How I yearn to take her in my arms and call her by 
the dearest name on earth — my wife ! But traveling proprieties 
are all around us, and I can only lean forward, as I sit facing her, 
and, under pretense of arranging something, secretly press her 
hand. “Hubby dear,” (with a little blush), “does this remind 
you of the journey we had planned ?” 

“ No — ” leaning still farther forward, under more pretense of 
arrangement — “ my darling, my sweet little wife ! ” Straightening 
up again — “ No, I must say it does not. It resembles it about as 
much as the garish pleasures of a royal progress must resemble 
the quiet pleasures of travel incog'* 


20— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. V. 


“ Oh, that is it !” she says, with the animation of an inspiration, 
“that is just it ! We will call this journey our wedding Progress : 
for isn’t Aunt Hepzibah Lord High Chamberlain ; isn’t Bolus 
Master of Ceremonies ; isn’t Uncle Robert General Factotum, and 
isn’t Victorine Lady in Waiting ? ” 

“ And aren’t you the Queen ?” I (softly) cry. 

“And you my King?” she answers, while the happy tears 
rise for an instant in her eyes. 

(The indulgent reader will pray pardon the relation of this 
little conversation, remembering that we were new to the business, 
so to speak, and therefore not so strictly accountable for our words. 
If you have been long married, suppress the caustic smile for the 
sake of the time when you were likewise new — when familiarity 
had not bred contempt. And if you have not yet entered the 
state into which we had been ushered that day, suppress the 
incredulous smile, knowing that there is such a thing as love, and 
that its new fruition must find vent in looks and words that to the 
outer world seem kindred to inanity.) 

Well it was indeed a Progress ! Behold our officials : Im- 
primis, always hnprimis. Aunt Hepzibah, autocratic, authoritative, 
her little tight ear-knots of smooth gray hair but accenting her 
self- assumed and reverently accorded position of leader. Secondly, 
Uncle Robert, affecting to be independent, really subservient ; his 
large-man’s head wagging upon his little-man’s body, in would-be 
contentment with all the world. Thirdly, his valet, to whose 
plebeian surname of Jones, ambitious but unkind parentage had 
prefixed Heliogabalus ; who steadfastly refused the whole imperial 
length of his name ; who resented with quick scorn the colloquial 
Gab, and who insisted upon the shorter and longer Bolus (as 
easier of pronunciation than Balus) : calm and serene, he moved 
amid the most exasperating distractions of travel with an imper- 
turbable rigidity of neck that not even the stiffness of his collar 
could have wholly imparted. Fourthly, Aunt Eunice, who, when 
not quietly fishing with her trumpet for strays and waifs of sound, 
sat placidly reading or regardful, as her mood might be, ever and 
anon speaking with her lips, not her voice, with fine disregard of 
circumscribing noise or the distance of the intended listener ; and 
whose silvery hair fell, smooth and soft, on either side of the face 
of an unconscious saint. Fifthly, Victorine, her maid, (Aunt 


Chap. V 


THE PROGRESS BEGINS.— 21 


Hepzibah scorns maids), a feminine contrast, on wires, to Bolus’s 
planted solidity. Sixthly, Jemima, now passively, now actively 
happy — always happy, dear child — with the womanly childishness 
that moved one (one, I say,) to toss her up toward the ceiling, or 
fondle her in his arms, or humbly bow before her lovely worth 
and purity. And seventhly, the narrator. 

We fly across level and monotonous Jersey ; roar through the 
old towns, restful and stagnant ; are sprung upon by the new, whose 
gingerbready architecture bespeaks the ephemeral present, and 
reaching the terminus, Jersey City, are paddled across the ferry to 
the larger New York; plunge into a maniac crowd of hackmen ; 
are seized by the most vociferous; are whirled and jolted away 
past ill-smelling wharves and worse-smelling markets, and board- 
ing the five o’clock boat for Providence just in time, the gang-plank 
is pulled ashore ; the mighty engine breathes into life, and we 
steam out upon the broad North River. We round Castle Garden, 
that ancient theatre, with its immigrant-haunted Battery, and work 
our way up the crowded East River and under the spanning wires 
of the Bridge. And as the great steamer forges through Hell 
Gate, I tell Jemima, who is sitting by my side on the forward 
hurricane deck, how, in my grandfather’s day, the travelers from 
the Nutmeg State to the great City left their sloops at the entrance 
of the dreaded passage, and kneeling on the grassy bank, prayed 
for the safety of the vessel on her journey through, boarding her 
again when it had been happily accomplished. 

Supper, with its (comparative) creature comforts, follows ; and, 
as the sun goes down behind the low and distant shore of the quiet 
Sound in a glory of crimson and gold, tingeing the long lines of 
gently -swelling waves, and the twilight deepens into night, by a 
process of natural selection the boat’s company on deck pairs ; 
and as night fairly lowers its pall over us, timid females are 
guarded against its terrors by the strong arms of their companions 
of the braver sex. And one young couple — whom elderly married 
women have been watching with a retrospective and softening 
smile — snuggle away into a specially dark corner by the pad- 
dle box. 

That a fog is maliciously impeding navigation, the roar of the 
whistle and the soft and distant boom of the fog-bells tell us, till 
whistle and bells roar and boom in dreams; when the rattle of 


22— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. V. 


cordage and the tramp of feet and the shock of the vessel against 
the wharf, recall me from an excursion across the open polar sea 
in a ship whose motive power is a whistle and whose sails are 
flattened bells, and we are at Providence. 

To say that Aunt Hepzibah had not been wearying during 
the journey hither would be to tell a most decided untruth. When 
our state-rooms were being allotted to us soon after leaving New 
York, we discovered, to our inexpressible dismay, that she had 
telegraphed for the bridal for us. Jemima, I am proud to say, 
absolutely refused to occupy that palatial and advertising domicile, 
and resolutely held out against Aunt Hepzibah’s commands and 
Uncle Robert’s entreaties, so that they were forced to occupy it 
themselves, we taking their abandoned state-room. Consequently 
they were the cynosure of all noticing eyes, the more so from 
their age. Whereas Jemima and I, by preconcerted arrangement, 
entered our state-room as occasion required — and occasion was 
required as seldom as possible — in, we hoped, such an uncon- 
scious manner as would lead all beholders to at once imagine that 
we had been married for years, if not for ages, and were, if any- 
thing, chaperones for our elderly friends; in which belief we 
hugged ourselves, enjoying the conscious discomfiture of Uncle 
Robert — nothing could upset Aunt Hepzibah. 

Bolus’s behavior during the trying altercation which preceded 
our final disposal, excited my admiration. Cold and immovable, 
he conveyed our belongings from the bridal abomination, whither 
he had at first carried them, to our won resting-place, allowing 
no glimmer of interest to commit him to either side, whereas 
Victorine had instantly taken up the cudgels against us. 

“ Whyfore ees eet zat Ma’m’selle — niille pardons / madame — 
whyfore should madame not accommodate herself of zis apparte- 
ment, si magnifiquement meuhlef" she cried. “Zis one here 
vill make to pass ze time plus agreable pour madame / ’’ and 
tone, and gesture of hands and particularly of shoulders, added to 
her entreaty. But, as I have said, commands and entreaties were 
of no avail to move Jemima — I, except for encouraging glances, 
held wisely aloof— and she had her reward, if reward it was, in a 
somewhat greater number of kisses when the closed door of our 
stateroom first shut us in from the traveling world. 


Chap. V 


THE PROGRESS BEGINS.— 23 


What a palatial caravansary in barbaric style is a Sound 
steamer ! What a wealth of gilding and red cotton plush, and 
what a poverty of taste ! What an aggregation of individualities 
does it contain, each much more accented than if conveyed by the 
uniforming railway ! It is a hotel cut off from all the world, 
wherefrom the guests can not escape, even for an hour, to other 
scenes and amusements, but are thrown upon the silent society of 
each other for interest and occupation. Behold those who, from 
absence of romance or of congenial company, choose the flaring 
and stuffy cabin and the enlivenment of paper-covered literature, 
rather than the fresh and seaey decks and the sound of the waves 
cloven by the sharp and rushing prow or beaten into flattened 
foam by the unresting wheels. And by these, mostly, sit their 
humdrum spouses, likewise literarily absorbed. 

Others there are who hunt (in couples) for the farthest removes 
from light and company, and, mere shades upon the dusk of 
night, blend two into an almost one, reluctantly yielding to 
Propriety when she commands the hour of separation. 

Others again there are who sit in accompanied solitude upon 
the forward deck, and, distinguishable by the intermittent glow of 
their cigars, think perchance of one from whose presence, if by 
their side, loneliness would flee, and whose dear companionship 
would fill the erst slow-winged hours with dread of their all too 
hurried flight. 

What a world within a world ! and within that smaller world, 
in what a world of newborn hopes and joys do two late-comers 
dwell ! >• 

Providence lies before us, a silhouette against the sunrise. 
Here, in the fresh air of the morning, the bustling pier. Beyond, 
the glassy river-harbor, upon the tinted waters of which are placidly 
riding vessels of high and low degree, whose tapering spars and 
rigid ropes and raking funnels and long, black hulls are likewise 
silhouettes against water and sky. Beyond again, the sleeping 
town, just wakening into life. The houses rise up the hill, black 
and dead on this side, with here and there a window blazing as if 
from fire within, and a sloping roof just torched by the rising sun, 
while, conspicuous among all, the great dome of some public 
building stands against the face of the sun, black below, and 
shading into grey and crimson toward the top. 


24 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. V. 


“ Where do we breakfast in this place ?” breaks in the voice of 
Aunt Hepzibah, as Jemima and I stand on deck viewing the scene. 

“ I ’ave been hinformed, ma’am,” says the accompanying 
Bolus, “ that the Narragansett is the honly ’ouse to which your 
ladyship would care to go.” 

Now Bolus’s English was faultless, except that he would drop 
or add his h’s upon all wrong occasions, and likewise insisted 
upon ennobling Aunt Hepzibah when addressing her, as evidence, 
perhaps, of the quality of his employers, before honoring this 
benightedly democratic country with his presence. 

“ I have heard,” interposes Uncle Robert, “ that the 

“ We will breakfast at the Narragansett, Bolus,” says Aunt 
Hepzibah, transfixing Uncle Robert with a glance. Whereupon 
we proceed to the cabin to collect our traps, where we find Victorine 
shouting into Aunt Eunice’s ear-trumpet that Bolus is her beast 
black ; from which amiable expression of opinion she, glancing at 
Bolus’s angrily imperturbable countenance, desists, gathering up 
Aunt Eunice’s belongings in a whirlwind of furious service. From 
which little episode Jemima and I opine that the journey thus far 
has not cemented the friendship of the two servitors. 

Breakfast over, Jemima and I, leaving the elders to repose, 
hire a buggy and drive down Westminster Street, and over the 
Providence River, and up the steep hill of College Street, passing 
the court-house on the way, a handsome, castellated structure, 
standing on the hillside and overlooking the lower town. Then, 
entering that portion where wealth and taste seem most to pre- 
dominate, we come to the Brown University, and so on to and 
out upon the terrace, a sort of esplanade at the top of an almost 
perpendicular descent, and look out over the city. 

At our feet lies the river, winding down through the town to 
the harbor, edged with shops and warehouses, and bridged in many 
places. And by it, and near a little park, is the railway station. 
Beyond, the city rises again, on a gentle elevation, toward the 
country and a distant line of low hills ; while behind us, on the 
abrupt heights, the gardens and mansions beautify this portion, 
and spread away along the side of the narrow valley. 

Driving down again, we recross the river, and at first rattle, 
and afterwards whirl away in a cloud of dust, in the direction of 
Roger Williams Park, which proves to be a new but pretty 


Chap. V. 


THE PROGRESS BEGINS.— 23 


breathing-place out toward the country ; and we, toward the support 
thereof, eat ice-cream at the restaurant. Off again by country 
roads, we reach the reservoir and pumping-station — the former 
square and turf-covered, and the latter of brick, and puffy — and 
leaving these, drive back by another and prettier road, dine 
with our relatives, and at 1.50 are seated in the Boston and Provi- 
dence train en route for Boston : when heat and sleep soon overcome 
our youngest, who, her head in the corner of her seat (she has 
resolutely refused my shoulder) presently looks like a shiny, dusty 
baby. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Mattapoisett, and the Professor. 

A DUSTY glimpse of -Boston; a hot, grimy, on-the-rough-and- 
ragged-edge-as-it-were glimpse of Boston, and we are jolted from 
the Boston & Providence Depot to that of the Old Colony, and 
thence whirled through factory towns, through farms, through 
villages, through pine forests, over salt marshes, past glimpses of 
the white sand of some antediluvian and much “ left ” seashore, 
and up to the rickety station of Mattapoisett and the waters of 
Buzzards* Bay. A transfer from rattling iron to more rattling 
wooden wheels, and the one street of the queer old town is reached, 
is rattled and dusted through, and the stage draws up at the door 
of a house that might have been built by a Noah of New England 
tendencies. 

In the far-away time when whales were plentiful, and so 
kindly disposed toward their fellow-mammals as to burn to furnish 
them with light, the profiters by their courtesy — to wit, the sea- 
farers who did most cultivate their acquaintance and sought them, 
even afar, to save them the trouble of coming to land to be cut up 
and boiled — espying the quiet and comparatively sheltered shores 
of Buzzards’ Bay (probably so called because buzzards were there 
unknown), established themselves thereon, and called the place 
of said establishment Mattapoisett, although how they could have 
so far erred as to adopt the quaint, musical and appropriate Indian 
name, instead of, say. Ocean View (the ocean being invisible from 
that shore), is, in the light of the present day, hard to imagine. 
But then, there were no excursionists to be beguiled. 

Having so and there established themselves, they built for 
themselves houses as nearly like their whalers as possible, in that 
Ihey were water-tight — being shingled from roof-tree to foundation, 
and compact— every available inch saved; and as much unlike 
as possible, in that they were clean. But this last might have been 
due to their wives. 

In process of time the whales, beginning to doubt the advisa- 
bility of further oily benevolence, absented themselves — those who 
had not previously been absented — from the region and even from 


Chap. VI. MATTAPOISETT, AND THE PROFESSOR.— 27 


the distant neighborhood ; wherefore oil absenting itself from the 
whalers’ boilers and consequently money from their pockets, they 
either followed the whales, or other callings, or more sensibly died, 
and Mattapoisett was left alone with its tenantless houses and 
deserted wharves and useless breakwater and (one) ruined general 
storekeeper. 

In further process of time a sharp Yankee, who to his native 
sharpness had added, like the balmy oil upon the penetrating 
vinegar, Boston culture — making of himself, thereby, a very good 
salad, he being naturally crisp — fishing for dollars where maybe 
his ancestors had fished for whales, sailed, so to speak, to Matta- 
poisett, and bought the whole town, it is said, for about four 
thousand dollars, presumably of the ruined general storekeeper, 
much as he would have bought up the protested and “ outlawed” 
notes of the dead-and-gone whalers. 

Finding the houses in a perfect state of repair, and disguising 
some of them in cultured paint, he sold two to two aesthetic friends 
for about two thousand apiece, and inhabiting the best one left of 
the lot, gazed complacently upon the remainder, of the town as so 
much pure profit. 

And so, gentle reader, having been thus introduced to the 
town, shake hands with our host and hostess, and enter with us 
the aforesaid Noachian residence, and gaze upon this sofa direct 
from the Ark, via the Boston of a century ago and a whaler’s 
cabin. Ditto sideboard. Ditto chairs. Ditto looking-glass with 
gilded impossible knobs in gilded impossible places on a gilded 
impossible frame. Observe these green paper Biblical window- 
curtains, upon which a blue David is smijingly, yet pensively, 
chopping off a -yellow head from a red Goliath before a back- 
ground of white Israelites with purple spears. Walk over this 
hall-floor and up these stairs, all painted a beautiful blue, thickly 
bespattered with white, as doubtless representing the time when, 
with a wet sheet and a flowing sea, their sometime owners danced 
over the foaming billows after the festive whale. 

How we were all stowed in that one house is difficult to com- 
prehend, except by bearing in mind that the house, retaining to 
a remarkable degree, evidently, the sea-faring proclivities of its 
departed builder (whose last voyage was the longest he ever made, 
inasmuch as he sailed thereon to Eternity), must have assisted its 


28— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. VI 


human cargo in said stowing, thereby rendering it possible for 
seven persons to occupy the space ordinarily accorded to four. 
For occupy that space we did, to the inextinguishable wrath of 
Bolus, whose thoughts probably turned with longing to the ’alls 
of the haristocracy which he, by his own rather foggy — and there- 
fore thoroughly English — account, had been used to frequent. 
For the grandeur to which the Englishman who makes this country 
the scene of his struggles for a livelihood has invariably been 
accustomed, whether as proprietor or guest in the drawing-room, 
or servant in the servants’ ’all, is, or is meant to be, to our demo- 
cratic minds, awe-inspiring and wonder-striking. In my own limited 
experience I have found it profitable to divide the sum of such an 
account by two, and often by four, and then to materially qualify 
the remainder. It is more soothing to my knowledge of my own 
possibilities than to at once, and voluntarily, shrink into the utter 
nothingness into which the relator would have me. 

It seems that, in the attic, a room had been prepared for 
Bolus and Victorine, divided by a combination of sheets hung 
from the roof-tree and tacked to the floor and reaching the door, 
(which opened outward) in the centre thereof. And this arrange- 
ment was apparently not pleasing to the modesty of Victorine, 
from the account which I overheard her give Aunt Eunice the 
next morning, with a perfect bubble of shoulder. 

“ Oh Mada77ieC said she, “ eet vas terrible! I permit my 
candle to eetself place upon a chaire. Mada77ie, je vous assure, 
zere ees no — vat you say — tiroir there — no nossing. I commence 
to dishabillate me. At zis moment zat bete aTiglaise entaire into 
his side of ze apparte77ient. During some time I no notice nossing. 
Alors, 77ion Dieu I at last I see to appear hees detestable shade 
upon ze curtaine ! And zen I tink a t mstaTit zat TTiy form also 
ought itself to appear upon ze same curtaine, during ze time zat 
I dishabillate myself. And zat de 77ih7ie he it had seen ! I myself 
throw to ze floor ! I implore — I ordaire him to leaf ze apparte77ie7it, 
and zen himself to dishabillate in ze obscurity, to end zat I might 
not be enforced to regard hees form detestable. Do you tink, 
Mada77ie, zat he obey ? Do you tink he haf in hees soul ze — 
how you say ? — ze noblesse of ze veritable ge7itilho7n7ne ? Non, 
Madame ! He laf — he laf only — and I am forced to blow ze 
candle, and to arrange 77tes cheveux" — but here I deemed that a 


Chap. VI. 


THE BA TTLE OF LIFE.—2g 


discriminating listener had best depart, that the mysteries of 
Victorine’s toilet be not exposed to a masculine ear. Victorine 
and Bolus were apparently not made for each other. 

After supper Jemima and I went down to the ancient and 
ruined pier and, sitting on one of its massive stones, looked over 
the little harbor as it broadened into the bay ; and our thoughts, 
followed seaward, until the waves seemed to toss and the spray to 
fall at our feet, and the uneasy plain to stretch away toward the 
sun-rising. Great clouds loomed up upon the misty horizon line, 
piling their giant masses in the air, as if a mountain world had risen 
from its buried slumber in the deep, and all the water on its rocky 
peaks had changed to glittering snow in that high altitude. Sum- 
mit on lower summit rose, until the sky was piled to heaven with 
peaks, while silent valleys lay between, that seemed as if their 
hidden beds must smile in summer greenery and summer flowers. 
And as the setting sun shone full upon this magic world, the moun- 
tains glistened from their snowy sides, and valleys beamed in 
sunny radiance. And as the glow shone bright with golden tints, 
and was suffused with crimson’s deeper hue, the peaks blushed red 
beneath the sun-god’s gaze, and gold-capped domes showed where 
far hidden cities lay. 

“ Dear,” she said — and my arm tightened around her waist 
as we sat on the lonely pier and watched the growing wonder of 
the clouds — ” if we could only walk that watery plain and reach 
those happy cities, would you go — if I went too ?” 

“ You know too well I would, if you went too,’^ I answered, 
“ for who would not escape, if those he loves could also go, from 
this world of ours, where we must grow old — and die. And many 
try, in one way or another, to reach some Happy City, but how 
few succeed. Would you like to hear a little poem that the sea 
and the clouds and the far-off cities call to my mind ?” 

“ Yes,” she said, as she leaned against me with that soft rest- 
fulness that women show to those they love, and her gaze went 
out again toward the slowly darkening clouds. 

“ Then I will tell you how fares 

The Battle of Life for the Many. 

I lie upon the sandy beach : 

Beyond, a scarcely moving reach 


^o— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. VI. 


Of bar-locked water, then the whitened line 
That marks the troubled shallows of the brine. 

Again beyond, the Ocean’s mighty breast ; 

Again beyond, vast clouds upon it rest — 

Huge, looming mountains, snow-capped cloudy peaks, 

Bright smiling valleys where the sunlight seeks 
The domes and spires of far-off cities hid 
The summits of each cloudy range amid — 

Domes that shine golden, spires of ruddy hue — 

Oh Fairy Cities, take me unto you ! 

I cross the sands, I breast the peaceful reach, 

I gain the billows of the barrier beach — 

Oh God, they crush me ! Help ! — The awful war 
Upon this seeming narrow wave-swept bar ! 

Dragged struggling down — swept fainting to and fro — 

The unrelenting surges o’er me go ! — 

But now an outward tide — oh, could I gain 
The quiet bosom of the mighty Main, 

And float, upheld upon that peaceful breast. 

Out toward those glowing Cities of the Blest ! 
******* 

A corpse floats out upon the quiet Main ; 

The Cities vanish into cloud again ; 

And youthful hopes and manhood' s earnest strife 
Fade^ like the sunlight^ from the sea of life T 

For a moment she sat motionless ; then turning toward me 
with a long, shuddering sigh she said, “ John, will your life — will 
our lives end like that ? Shall we be always striving and striving,, 
only to end in disappointment and the grave ? Oh, John — ” with 
growing excitement — “they must not — they shall not! One 
Happy City we shall reach — we have reached — the City where 
Love dwells; and shall we not, all our lives, dwell there too ?” 

“Yes, darling,” I said, as I drew her closer to me, “we have 
reached that Fairy City, on the borders of the great Sea of Life, and 
therein we will dwell. And if we ever set out on little journeys 
toward other neighboring cities, we will always go together, and, 
helped the one by the other, no wave shall ever beat either of us quite 
down ; but if the journey fail, and the city is not reached, we will 


Chap. VI. MATTAPOISETT, AND THE PROFESSOR.— 31 


put back to the home port to repair damages,” I cried gaily, ” and 
then try again — ^but always together.” 

” And when we make the last journey,” she said slowly, “that 
short journey to the Golden City, oh, John, if the kindly Captain 
would only take us both together ! ” and as I smoothed back her 
hair, my hand was wet with tears. 

The sunlight fades into twilight ; the twilight darkens into 
night ; the night brightens into moonlight, and the slender spars 
of the yachts, as they sway softly to and fro in the gentle swell, are 
dim and shadowy. And as we sit and dream of the harbor’s past, 
the masts grow taller. Main, topsail, t’gallant and royal yards 
stretch broad across. Great black hulls loom up beside the risen 
wharves, and, in wreaths of mist, the smoke of boiler fires 
sweeps eddying round the masts and shrouds ; while, in the plash 
of the quiet waves against the pier, the distant voices of the long 
since dead echo over the little bay with the rattle of cordage and 
the clank of chains and the bustle and stir of a vanished life. 

The moon goes down, and dreams waft our souls, and the sun 
rises upon this present world. 

And now yachts real, not phantom ships. Great white sails, 
full-spread and full-bellied. White spray astern and white foam 
astern. Bright colors, bright eyes and rounded forms on deck. 
Umbrellas and parasols fixed — a tack — and unfixed with a duck. 
Many things to eat and more things to drink in the cabin. The 
glories of a race ; the egotism of victory, and a sail homeward 
wing-and-wing. 

That evening as Jemima and I sat on the vine-covered 
porch — I smoking — we were the unwitting, although, I regret to 
say, not unwilling hearers of a conversation, one-sided, so far as 
our ears were concerned, being conducted between Aunt Hepzibah 
and Aunt Eunice, Aunt Eunice’s share being, of course, from her 
peculiar habit, inaudible at our distance. 

“Why, I’ve told you that before.” 

Silence. 

“Yes I have, often.” 

Silence. 

“Oh, well, if you’ve forgotten, and it will pass away the time,. 

for it is a stupid hole. I’ll tell you again. You see Robert ” 

Silence. 


J2—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. VI 


“ No, he’s eleven years younger than I am, not twelve. I’m 
fifty-nine and he’s forty-eight.” 

Silence. 

“ Not four years, five years and six months, this month. We 
were married in January. Your memory is becoming very short, 
Eunice.” 

Silence. 

“Well, I’m glad you remember at last. Well, the summer 
before, I had become very tired managing the farm ” 

Silence. 

“No, not barn, farm! (Heavens, how deaf she is!) I had 
become very tired managing the far7n alone, and I wanted some 
one to look after things, under my direction of course;” 

Silence. 

“ No, of course he’s not a farmer ! You know he’s a lawyer, 
now don’t you ?” ^ 

Silence. 

“ Of course you do. And every farm hand I had ever trusted 
always cheated me. You know I first met Robert that winter at 
the first Assembly.” 

Silence. 

“Well, I believe it was at Mrs. Ensanguined’s ball — but that 
was just before the Assembly. And Robert was lonely, and his 
practice wasn’t very good, and so I thought it would be a good 
thing to marry him ; and we were married in January, you remem- 
ber, not February.” 

Silence. 

“Yes, he’s a good husband. Last summer I was afraid to send 
the cabbages to market by express, so I had him take them in in 
a bag when he went to the office, and that saved expressage too.” 

Silence. 

“ No, the house in town is closed now, and when we get back 
we’ll go direct to the farm.” 

Silence. 

“Yes, she’ll deliver it all right. Sarah is a good girl, and she 
can superintend butter-making as well as I can, and I told her 
before I came away just what houses to deliver it at. When I get 
home I’ll discharge Mary and take Sarah’s place myself,” etc., 
etc., etc. 


Chap, VI. MATTAPOISETT, AND THE PROFESSOR.— 33 


Jemima and I nearly suffocated from suppressed laughter, for 
we didn’t dare utter a sound, and at the last piece of information 
we quietly slunk off the porch and down the steps, and walked 
away down the village street in the moonlight. 

“ Poor Uncle Robert !” ejaculated she when we were out of 
hearing. 

“And poor John,” rejoined I ; “ both married out of hand !” 

“John, how dare you ! You know that you ” 

“Just said ‘ Will ?’ and you kissed back a ‘Yes’ in no time.” 

“ Well, your eyes said what your tongue didn’t dare to say, 
you old coward, and I pitied you, and saved your harassed 
feelings.” 

And so, like two very young (though we weren’t very young) 
and very foolish persons (though we didn’t think we were), we 
walked and talked till bed-time. 

“How strange,” said I to Jemima, in the speculative time 
just before sleep, “that Aunt Hepzibah, a woman of comparative 
wealth, and who knows every one worth knowing in the City of 
Brotherly Love, should marry a man to help her take care of the 
cabbages on one of her outlying farms !” But Jemima answered 
not, for she was exploring the Land of Dreams. 

The next morning our ship that had been built to stay, not to 
sail, unloaded us, and we departed; and the Professor and his 
bugs went with us. 

For we had met, soon after our arrival, a great entomologist 
(or he thought he was, which answered every purpose) whose 
near-sighted though kindly blue eyes were fortified with excessively 
small, square spectacles of high magnifying power, reposing upon 
a nose which seemed endeavoring to escape from an exceedingly 
large, round and reddish beard, and who lived in an atmosphere 
of bugs— bugs little and bugs big ; bugs harmful and bugs harm- 
less ; bugs pretty and bugs ugly— but always bugs. His very 
conversation swarmed with them. He talked with a buzz and a 
hum, as if he were himself a great bumble-bee. He had four 
enormous, solemn creatures picketed to him, so to speak, by gold 
chains attached to gold bands around their black bodies, whose 
entire lives seemed to be spent in testing a case of strength of leg 
versus strength of chain, with an utter disregard of what was 
intended to be. probably, the succulent pasturage of his black 


34—^ BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. VI. 


clothes. In every pocket he kept, in glass bottles perforated with 
small holes for air, bugs of every color and combination of colors, 
putting each bottle in the pocket whose temperature accorded 
most closely to the native temperature of the incarcerated bugs. 
And his admiring friend was Aunt Eunice, who hitherto had 
shrieked at the very imagination of a bug. For when she and 
the Professor were first introduced, he had at once whipped out a 
bottle of bugs, and, before she could say nay, had given them a 
holiday on his hand, for purposes of explication. Whereat one 
more adventurous insect had incontinently tumbled off his play- 
ground and into Aunt Eunice’s ear-trumpet, to her shrinking 
horror. And then it was that the Professor had triumphed, all 
unconsciously ; for his extreme solicitude to recapture the erring 
one without unduly compressing its fleeing frame or twisting one of 
its multitudinous and strenuously active legs, so endeared him to 
the tender heart of Aunt Eunice, that she accepted the friend, 
notwithstanding his traveling entomological menagerie. 

More hand-shaking; more station, “left” seashore, salt 
marsh, pine forest, villages, farms, towns, and again Boston. 

And as we hurry with the crowd from the cars, a story told us 
the day before by the old skipper of the yacht, who had been a 
man-o’-war’s-man, as he leaned over the tiller and kept the gaff- 
topsail warily in his eye, breaks, a wave of mirth, over my mind. 
Said he : 

“ When I was aboard the Bluewater down in the Mediter- 
ranean, we lay off Nice for a week or two, and lots o’ them 
gimcrack fellers over there come aboard. We had a greeny just 
bein’ broke in, and one day I set him to holy-stonin’ the deck. He 
wasn’t used to all that there furrin’ toggery, and he’d bin readin’ a 
powerful sight in the Errabyan Nights. Well, that day a right 
smart o’ them fellers come aboard, they bein’ some big-bugs from 
shore. The hatchway was open fur air, and they went nosin’ 
’round to see the ship. Pretty soon up steps greeny to the officer 
of the day, and salutin’, says he, ‘ One o’ them kings has fell down 
the hatchway !’ and marched back solemn to his holy-stonin’.” 

And in the midst of the crowd I smile audibly ; whereupon a 
huge Westerner, walking an inch or two nearer, remarks, 
“’Scuse stranger, but maybe you was laughin’ at me?'" I 
telegraph, “ Not by any means !” 


CHAPTER VIT. 

Boston. 

Jemima and I, leaving our elders to a nap in the Hotel Vendome, 
wander off to see the town ; and as all good people from elsewhere 
do, and as all good Bostonians do not, we, as in duty bound, ascend 
to the cupola of the State House, passing on the way the stands of 
battle flags, whose tattered folds and splintered staves are eloquent 
of fields lost and won ; of individual heroism and combined 
bravery ; of riven homes and shattered hearts ; of liberty, equality, 
but, alas, not of fraternity. But, dusty and decaying, they speak 
of the past, thank God, not of the present. 

Through the hieroglyphicked panes of the cupola windows — • 
silent witnesses to the glorious fact that the possessors of the 
scrawly names were possessors likewise of a proud vulgarity, of 
some money (hence diamonds) and of tenantless noddles — ^through 
these disfigured panes behold the view, from the hub of the Hub,, 
of the Hub of the universe. 

At first sight, a little town, a disappointingly little town. Frorrfi 
this highest central point on which we stand, the cone of a sugar- 
loaf, the city proper covers the sugar-loaf hill, a confused mass of 
bricrk and stone and, seemingly, meaningless streets, that meander 
like the Meander from nothing to apparently nowhere, diving in 
and out of the brick and stone, and coming up every now and 
then unexpectedly to the beholder and apparently to themselves, 
for they immediately go down again. Nearly surrounding this 
sugar-loaf are the combined waters of the Charles River and har- 
bor, bringing to it, on the harbor side, a bristling growth of masts, 
like a dead and exceedingly sparse forest. And indenting the 
loaf on the harbor side are long inlets by the wharves, as if the 
harbor waters, being sweet-toothed, had eaten their way in, or 
being ambitious and lovers of scenery, were trying to scramble 
their way up the hill, with the masonry, for the view. 

Immediately in front of our directoried standpoint — that is, 
to the south— and a little to the west, lies the historic Common, 


S6—A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. VII. 


where the old boys played themselves into men, and then merrily 
(? — alas! the games at Bunker Hill and Valley Forge were not 
very merry — then we’ll say cheerily) played the British out, with 
pleasant little iron balls and leaden balls, instead of leathern 
balls. And hence it is, perhaps, that the old town seems dis- 
appointingly small. For, from the days of the Puritan Fathers 
(of many of us), so many grand things, and noble things and 
heroic things — so much of thought and culture and true refine- 
ment have centred in and around this (comparatively) little 
town, that those of us who come from larger aggregations of brick 
and mortar, founding, perhaps, our ideas of its physical upon our 
knowledge of its mental greatness, expect to find more than the 
old town has to show. 

Further away to the south stretch the flat lands of South 
Boston and the South Bay, and, sweeping around to the west, 
the brick-covered ridge of ostracized South Boston; the Park, 
reclaimed from the mud and mire and stagnant water of Back 
Bay, and, between it and us. New Swelldom, between New 
Beacon and New Boylston Streets, also reclaimed from the erst 
pestilent Back Bay (and, let us whisper it, from many another 
perhaps still pestilent Back Bay of unacknowledged beginnings 
and incomes). 

To the west the Back Bay, where the little Charles River 
spreads out into apparent greatness and real shallowness, and 
across and beyond that the old Cambridge, where Washington 
marshaled his little force, where has been of long time and still 
is Harvard, the fountain of many a life-rill and river of thought 
and purpose and high endeavor and higher attainment, and from 
whence, from him not long since with us, a song has gone out 
into all the world” for the drying of many a tear, for the righting 
of many a wrong, for the nerving of many an arm, and for the 
lifting of many a soul as high as and into heaven. 

To the north and across the Charles, now a narrow stream 
ere it enters into the harbor, lies Charlestown, with its world- 
famous monument (happy Bunker to have owned and named, if 
he did, that hill !) and the navy-yard. 

Farther north the Mystic River, as it comes down into the 
Charles and the harbor, and toward the east, Chelsea and South 
Boston. 


Chap. VII. 


BOSTON.— jy 


Away to the east the harbor and Governor’s Island, where the 
old-time Governor lived in peaceful dignity apart from his shop- 
keeping colonial subjects, until a book-seller rode his Gubernatorial 
Majesty three thousand miles across the sea — “and he never 
came back any more.” Still farther away islands and island 
groups, until we reach and pass those half-sunken rocks, so vividly 
called The Graves, and are out at sea. 

And now, having a bowing acquaintance with Boston, we call 
upon her ; and having a liking for Old Swelldom, we go down 
first through Beacon Street, noting the numerous chimney-pots, 
whose whirligig tin tops, denoting the way of the atmospheric 
wind, denote likewise, probably, the way of the domestic wind, 
especially when accompanied with gout or rheumatism. We note 
also the bow-front houses, as if plethoric with good living ; or as 
if, curious as to the doings of the neighbors, they had their heads 
out of window to look up and down the street. In these live 
many of the old regime, still clinging, literally, to the side of their 
steep Beacon Hill, and loth to go down to the newer and more 
convenient and more unhealthy and level locality below. 

We, however, not so loth, go down ; and going down, reach 
the region where Money is king. Long rows of beautiful houses 
built, it is said, on piles over a whilom marsh and on a whilom 
dirt-and-ash-heap. Beautiful hotels — the Vendome, chateau- 
like; the Brunswick, ugly, but “swell.” Beautiful churches 
where no paupers need apply— Trinity, of irregular shape, with 
cloister walks, Lafarge windows, and purple and gold, and, doubt- 
less in the surplice of the rector, fine-twined linen, and sinking, 
they say, on its unstable pile foundation, and yet the rostrum 
from whence has been given to the world a message of holiness 
and Christian manliness ; the new Old South, as unlike the old 
Old South as new is unlike old, and, to some tastes, not quite 
as near heaven, but if a way there, a gorgeous way ; the new 
Brattle Street Church (every thing new) with a porte-cochere, 
under which Debt drove his coach-and-four, until the Baptists 
came and drove the congregation away, but Debt remained. 
And so. looking and musing, we return by the broad Common- 
wealth Avenue, with its double row of trees, to the Public Gardens 
and the Common, which are again disappointing as to their size, 
but pretty as to their ornamentation. Walking up through these, 


Chap. Vir. 


38— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


and past the beautiful soldiers’ monument on an exceedingly arid 
and desolate looking little hill, we arrive once more at Beacon 
Street and the State House. Through Hancock Place (which is 
eight feet wide and as steep as a ladder) we go up to Temple 
Street and Beacon Hill Place and the less sunny, because the less 
wealthy side of the old regime, and so down by the old graveyard 
of the Park Street Church to the older King’s Chapel ; and here, 
opening the old oak door with its massive latch-lock with huge 
bronze rings for handles, we step into the past and into- the Estab- 
lished Church of the Georges. Cherubs and suns and dragons 
start out in tarnished gilt from the carvings. In the grim and 
uncompromising pews sleepiness has ever, evidently, been un- 
known. The sounding-board has thrown many thousands of 
yards of drone at the ears if not into the minds of long-dead-and- 
gone hearers. On the walls several tablets vie with each other in 
perpetuating the mendacity or servility or pride of survivors. And 
one of these especially attracts our attention. It was erected 
to the memory of Samuel Vessel, by his great grandson, “of 
Jamaica,’’ in 1766; and on it is related that the said Samuel, 
having been imprisoned by the Star Chamber Court, Parliament, 
in July, 1641, ‘‘ voted him ^10,455 (it was well to be exact) 

“ for his Damages. But the rage of the Times and the Neglect of 
Proper Applications since, have left to his family only the honor 
of that Vote and Resolution.’’ Poor family ! Now if they had 
only had the money as well as the honor ! 

Through the upper floors of old Faneuil Hall — now degraded, 
as to the first floor, to railroad and other offices — we wander ; and 
among portraits of Kings and Queens and Governors and other 
notabilities, we see a rude, colored engraving, “engraved, printed 
and sold by Paul Revere,” of “The Bloody Massacre perpetrated 
in King Street, Boston, March 5, 1770, by a party of the Twenty- 
ninth Regiment,” which, poor and rude as it was, kindled a fire 
which only died out in the ashes of a kingly rule. 

We ride over to Cambridge in a prosaic horse- car, which ill 
accords with “The Bridge with the Wooden Piers,” and take a 
hurried look at Harvard, deserted and still in the long vacation. 
Walking on toward Longfellow’s house, we pass the Washington 
Elm ; and, as it is being trimmed, I am fortunately enabled to 
secure sufficient of the historic wood to make a cane. Reaching 


Chap. VII. 


BOSTON.— sg 


Longfellow’s gate, we are confronted by the ancient Hibernian 
gardener, who is watering the shrubbery and grass, and who 
declines to admit us. But by a judicious use of the Blarney 
Stone, and the mention of the fact that my aunt is a descendant 
of Andrew Cragie, the original owner of the place, whose ancient 
elms tower over us as we argue, he is led to exclaim, “ Be jabers, 
ye’ve more roight to say the place than anny one that’s bin here 
these twinty years!” and forthwith turns us over to the house- 
keeper. By this pleasant dame we are shown through the lower 
part of the house — Lady Washington’s parlor, the meeting place 
of the little Republican Court; the dead poet’s favorite view, 
through the length of the broad piazza greenly shaded by its 
ancient blinds, across the peaceful meadows to the low, hazy arid 
distant hills bounding the calm horizon line ; the “ clock on the 
stairs the various treasured objects which were of interest to the 
owner and are now therefore to the world ; and last of all the 
library, the birthplace of so many thoughts which went out 
therefrom to ennoble the race, and the home of the great creative 
spirit — “just as he left it,” the old housekeeper said, with tears in 
her eyes. And we reverently shut to the door, as if shutting it 
upon the beloved dead. 

The declining sun sees our party rattling over a street almost 
as badly paved as one in Philadelphia (which is saying a great 
deal), en route for the Portland wharf. 

As we leave the carriages, I notice that Bolus actually helps 
Victorine with some of the satchels and wraps. What can have 
come over the spirit of their nightmare ? 


CHAPTER VIII. 


To Portland; and Portland. 

India wharf — a wharf of old-time associations, when huge India- 
men lay alongside, their jutting bowsprits and jib-booms reaching 
over the water street and peering into the third-story windows, 
while the lofty masts bore their royal, sky-sail and moon-sail yards 
up toward the clouds. When beardless and ruddy-cheeked boys 
went aboard, bound for the far-off dazzling and golden East, and 
cried themselves to a tossing, ill-smelling, confined and altogether 
uncomfortable sleep, in the memory of the last sight of the 
maternal tears and handkerchief. When sallow, bearded and 
broken-down men came ashore with more or less (generally less) 
of the gold and none of the dazzle of the again far-off East, and 
cried themselves to sleep because no mother’s happy tears were 
their first sight on reaching home. When rich stuffs lay upon the 
beams and planks, peeping out of ill-conceived bundles in won- 
derment and dismay at their new damp and chilly home. When 
silk-clad heathen walked down the gang-plank in an atmosphere 
of attar-of-roses and sandal-wood, carrying visions of the Arabian 
Nights and the Car of Juggernaut to gaping and round-eyed 
boys, and righteous anger and proselyting fervor to fiery and hard- 
hearted worshipers of the mild and lenient Christ. A wharf of 
evidently (now) old-time dirt and present decay, and odorous of 
everything else under the sun except attar-of-roses and sandal- 
wood ; and alongside lies, in lieu of an Indiaman, the steamer 
John Brooks, bound likewise for the East— “down East ’ ’—Portland ; 
and her smoke reaches over the water street, enters third-story 
windows and soars away quite up to the clouds. 

What a crowd! What a be-bundled, be-packaged crowd! 
What a conspicuous absence of regulation traveling bags and slim 
umbrellas, and what a conspicuous presence of ephemeral paper 
imitations of the more durable leather, and of “ ambrils ” of 


Chap. VIIL 


TO PORTLAND ; AND PORTLAND.— 41 


the ancient and bulgy type. “ The wharf come to life and 
moving!” might he exclaim whose senses were limited to that 
of smell. 

With Aunt Hepzibah in the van — an animated cow-catcher or 
snow-plough — our party struggles aboard and to the upper cabin, 
where the Professor is instantly pounced upon by an individual 
whose air of near-sighted investigation combined with general 
dishevelment of person proclaims him a brother scientist, and 
carried off in a whirlwind of gesticulation (resembling the usual 
attitude of the Professor’s bugs’ legs) to his (the friend’s) stateroom. 
For the Professor had been invited by Uncle Robert, at Aunt 
Eunice’s instigation and with Aunt Hepzibah’s permission, to join 
our party, as we had discovered that his summer pathway lay in 
the general direction of ours, and as Aunt Eunice had furthermore 
discovered that he was an intelligent listener (he probably applied 
his habits of minute investigation of bugs to the reading of the 
moving hieroglyphics of her lips) and that he did not yell into her 
trumpet. 

Leaving the remainder of the party in a general attitude of 
uncomfortable defiant expectation, I go below again to procure 
tickets and staterooms. Tickets forthcoming— also the ukase, 
“ The last two staterooms — no more left.” The appealed-to and 
quarter-enlivened steward opines that some staterooms engaged 
may not be ultimately taken ; with which uncertain consolation I 
am fain to be content, bespeaking, however, in the event of 
highly-probable disappointment, the best berth below for myself 
the (again enlivened) steward can secure. So I mount to the 
cabin v/ith my two keys and break the news gently ; when Aunt 
Hepzibah instantly assigns the better of the two staterooms to 
herself and Uncle Robert, and the other to Aunt Eunice and 
Jemima, cheerfully remarking that I will probably find the berths 
below very comfortable ; whereat Jemima glares at her like an 
aroused bantam, but I quiet her with a look, and the traps and 
assignees are installed in their respective localities. Bolus and 
Victorine go (together I ) below to hunt up resting places, and we 
walk out on deck. 

The hawsers thrown off, the last man aboard — why should 
there always be a last (andTrantic) man to divide the passengers 
into two rival bodies, those who fear he will and those who fear 


42 -- A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. VIII. 


he won’t fall in ? — and waterside smells give place to salt-laden 
breezes, and we sail off toward the sea. 

Far to the east, the dimming brightness of the day. Back to 
the west, the growing glory of the departing sun. Against crimson 
and gold; against deep-dyed clouds and tinted cloudy peaks; 
against flaming rays shot wide and high, the old spire-crowned 
city lay on her central hill and gazed out toward the sea, her 
thousand eyes bright with the fire within, or flashing back the sun’s 
more brilliant flames. Lay and gazed till light reflected, paled, 
grew dim and disappeared ; till light internal gleamed in points of 
orange fire ; till bay and sea were but a misty void ; till night came 
down and threw her sombre cloak upon the city, silent and at rest. 

The scramble for food (politely called supper) over, Jemima, 
whose poor little head has been racked with an ache beaten into 
it by the heat and sight-seeing of the day, takes me into her state- 
room and hugs me a pitying good-night. I resign her to the care 
of gentle Aunt Eunice, and retire to the hurricane deck, and there, 
ere long almost alone, sit and gaze upon the beauties of sea and 
sky until, inspired by the scene, like Mr. Wegg “ drop into 
poetry,” scribbling upon a note-book leaf which the fast receding 
light speedily renders perceptible only to the sense of touch : 

The dying sun dyes with his burning blood 
The fleecy clouds that gather round his bed 
And turn their ashen faces toward their lord. 

Mute witnesses of his departing state. 

Their misty forms he robes in burnished gold, 

Or decks with molten silver’s shining light. 

Now o’er the waves floats out the crimson flood. 

And tinges all the steamer’s whitened side, 

And flames aloft to paint with deepest flush 

Just then the notes of the most untuned piano that ever a 
tuneless-souled maker inflicted upon an auction-attending world, 
burst upon the cabin below, through the open transom and upon 
my ear. The flush fades immediately from my imagination, and 
I wrestle with the spirits of inharmony. The piano ceases — perhaps 
the player is dead — and once more the wonderful beauty of the 
scene thrills every nerve, fills every thought. 


Chap. VIII. 


TO PORTLAND; AND PORTLAND.— 43 


But now the death-pall settles slowly down 

Upon the sun, and all his shining gifts 

Dark, envious night strips from the pallid clouds, 

And spreads her blackening mantle o’er the sea. 

Gone is the sun ; no more the tossing waves 
Uphold the pathway o( his burning blood ; 

But 

That infernal piano again ! And thinking that, perhaps, my 
poetry is becoming a trifle lurid, I give it up and start to go below. 
On the way down the now dark deck to the companionway, I see a 
pair of shades, whose voices seem familiar, and stop to listen — if 
they should ever see this confession, I hope they will pardon 
the intrusion. 

“ Zat eet vas whyfore I proceed not to execrate the presence 
of Monsieur,” Victorine is saying. 

“ Oh, Miss ” 

“ Call me Ma’m’selle ! Eet ees in my ears more agreable zan 
ze stupide Mees of ze Anglais." 

“ Maddeymoysell,” continues Bolus, with a wave of his 
shadowy arm, “ Hi’m gratified that so trifling a haction on my 
part changed your views, seeing as ’ow we must be naturally left 
much toheach other’s society.” 

“ Must, Monsieur Boloos ? ” 

“ Har, Maddeymoysell” — but one enlarged shadow is now 
visible, one side of it at an inclination — “ Har ! and Hi’m ’appy 
that we har. I won’t deny that it was a hinconvenience to disrobe 
myself in the dark, but your pleadings. Miss — Maddeymoysell — 
went to my ’art, and I felt that it was but the hact of a gentleman 
to hapologize for a laugh which was but the work of a hunguarded 
instant.” 

“Oh, Monsieur Boloos” — in somewhat smothered tones — “ ze 
maniere of Monsieur — eet vas so aimable — so 77iajestique — as one 
should tink like as Monseigneur ze king himself should prostrate. 
For zat raison I may not more to hate Monsieur. Ah, Monsieur 
Boloos, say aftaire me, Je faime, ma chere ! ” 

“ Jer tame, mar chair.” 

“ Oh, eet ees excellente, splendide ! Say now ” 

But as the mental atmosphere is evidently becoming some- 
what summery, not to say moonlighty, I nobly fly, and go below 


4;— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. VIII. 


and into a motley and, as a rule, open-mouthed crowd, whose 
intellects are absorbed by the performance by a blind man upon 
the above-named piano. 

I soon give that up likewise, and go still further below, and 
seek the heretofore-enlivened steward. To hint again appealing, 

I discover that what was highly probable before has become highly 
certain now, and I have no stateroom. Still further going below, 

I ensconce myself in a berth above a colored brother, whose only 
baggage seems to be a duster, which must have been useless, for 
he carries also dust. 

Ensconced as aforesaid, as comfortably as a man might be in 
a coffin too small for him, I endeavor to woo the drowsy god, but 
am interrupted in that silence-requiring occupation by an animated 
conversation between two berths. 

“Go on deck and have it out,” suggest I. 

“Who are you talking to ?” interrogate they. 

“You ! ” forcibly reply I. 

“Shut up, you d d old wind bag,” politely request they. 

Whereupon, putting the cap to their own mouths, they do as they 
request — and the drowsy god is wooed and won. 

The steamer and we and the sun all reach Portland together ; 
but while the steamer weeps little dewy drops from deck and 
paddle-box at our departure, we nobly refrain, and march through 
the silent business streets up toward the Preble House. Cent, 
per cent, is locked up and not yet awake. Cent, per cent., when 
he does awake, will sit down on piles of hides ; get into shoes ; 
crawl under hats ; even insinuate his bony self into bonier molds, 
wherein are destined to be ill-molded soft and rounded women- 
forms, all in the endeavor to out-per cent, other per cents, in the 
same fields. 

“ Oh,” sigh Aunt Eunice’s lips, as we seat ourselves 
disconsolately in the deserted and hardly-awake parlor of 
the Preble House, “ do you think we shall have breakfast 
soon?” 

As the look accompanying the sigh is directed at Uncle 
Robert, he immediately and with simulated cheerfulness opines 
that we shall have it soon, when Aunt Hepzibah sharply interjects, 
“ If you will look over your head, Robert, you’ll see that we 
shan’t!” 


Chap. VIII. 


TO PORTLAND; AND PORTLAND.— 4S 


Uncle Robert, so adjured, looks meekly over his shoulder, 
and solemnly reads aloud, “ Breakfast at seven. Dinner at ” 

“ Robert, that will do !” interposes his wife. “ Thank goodness 
we don’t stay to dinner. Eunice, we shan’t get a bite till seven, 
so you’d better make yourself comfortable;” and suiting the 
action to the word, she reclines upon a sofa in as uncomfortable 
an attitude as possible, and affects to sleep, which proceeding does 
not tend to render us more lively. 

The Professor, who has been absorbedly studying a fly on the 
window-pane during the above little colloquy, here walks out of 
the door, and is shortly to be seen from the window, standing on 
tiptoe by a tree, endeavoring to reach a huge tree- bug that is 
crawling up the trunk. So I propose to Jemima (who is as bright 
as a lark again) that we speer around the town till breakfast time ; 
and we accordingly depart to speer. 

Near the Preble House — Commodore Preble’s old mansion, 
” transmogrified ” so that the old Commodore would not know his 
own should he come to it — is the first brick house ever built in 
Portland, built then one-and-a-half story by Longfellow’s grand- 
father and added to the extent of another story and a half by 
Longfellow’s father, from whence the son went to other scenes and 
immortality. 

Further down the street — Congress Street — some man with 
'ecclesiastical proclivities has built himself a story- and-a-half 
church of granite, wherein to ecclesiastically dwell. 

State Street, the best and most beautiful, opens up, with its 
fine residences, and double row of elms on the north side and 
single row on the south side, the trees having been so planted, 
perhaps, to mark the degrees of social distinction. 

Oak Street, lined on both sides with English elms, and 
probably so called because the city fathers meant them to be 
oaks. 

“Boarding and Baiting Stable” swinging at the horseless 
traveler from an ancient sign. 

The observatory, utilized by Uncle Sam from an ancient 
windmill, from which all Portland lies spread out like a map. 
To the east the rocky harbor, with its islands, little and big, 
dotting the blue of the sea. To the north and south the city, 
lying on a narrow ridge, embosomed in its elms. And in the 


46 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. VIIL 


little room where we stand, maps and charts, thermometers and 
barometers, spy-glasses and telescopes, and all the paraphernalia 
of a semi-lookout, semi-signal service station. 

Breakfast; the Portland and Ogdensburg depot; the 8.25 
train for Fabyan’s — and the Forest City melts into the forests and 
seas where no cities are. 


/ 


CHAPTER IX. 

Fabyan’s. 

Leaving Portland, our iron way winds first through farm-lands of 
sterile soil and scanty crops ; through farm-lands where soil gives 
place to rock and rock to forest ; past hills whose tops are ever 
further from the level and man and ever nearer the clouds and 
God, till Mount Kearsarge lifts its barren crest into the distant 
view ; Pleasant Mountain and Wood Mountain loom up, and 
Mount Washington, the king of all, appears, cloud-capped, 
majestic, and our goal. 

The best side for the view on the P. & O. Railroad is the left, 
as far up as Conway, and the right from there to Fabyan’s. At 
Upper Bartlett’s observation cars are put on, and the wily and 
informed traveler who gets his traps all ready for a rush, and 
rushes, gets a good seat therein, and can look calmly and with 
satisfaction upon the innocent and uninformed who do not. 

Passing Hart’s Ledge and Sawyer’s Rock, the railway winds 
along the Saco River, amid ever-increasing wildness and desola- 
tion, where “the land seems all on edge,” as a Westerner from 
the prairies remarks, till the great valley which terminates in 
Crawford’s Notch appears, and we plunge into the very heart 
of the mountains. The old Crawford House at Bemis Station, 
deserted, gray, weather-beaten, and staring frorn its sashless 
windows like some ancient skull, flies by ; the Giants’ Stairs 
ascend from woody depths where torrents war to barren heights 
where clouds rest ; Mounts Franklin and Monroe fall behind us 
and disappear ; we pass by the old Willey Mountain House, now 
far below us in the valley, and see the long, tree-swept lane down 
which, in days gone by, from far above us, it slowly slid with the 
earth on which it stood, upright and uninjured, to its present 
resting-place; and the Notch, with its V-shaped patch of clear 
blue sky, appears far ahead. 


48 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. IX. 


The valley becomes narrower and seemingly, from the nearing 
sides of the vast mountains, deeper. The sunlight suddenly goes 
out, and a furious dash of rain from a passing cloud brings 
curtains down and wraps up, till the sunlight comes in again. 
The storm-cloud creeps down the mountain side; lingers a 
moment to still further vex the torrents ; creeps slowly up the 
opposite wooded heights ; covers, in a clinging embrace, the 
mountain top, and sails darkly and grandly away, leaving little 
wisps of vapor, like stragglers after an army’s march, to follow as 
best they may. The Notch comes nearer ; is just before us ; is 
here upon us ; and beside an old and deserted road-way we dash 
through its rocky portal, and emerge from savagery to loveliness, 
from desolation to cultivation, from a wilderness to a little smiling 
valley high up among these mountain tops, where the meadows lie 
yellow-green underneath the sun; where a little lake sparkles and 
dimples in the bright light ; where the window-panes of the new 
Crawford House flash us a welcome, and where we stop at a depot 
and civilization. A little further run on a down grade, and we 
arrive — at 12.35 p. m. — at Fabyan’s, which is simply a house, a 
huge house, set down in a meadow by a railway station, without 
the ghost of an attendant village. 

Dinner in a huge dining-room, where the tables seem like 
white-coated soldiers on review, with shining castor-helmets and 
white plate-buttons and knife-and-fork medals of honor; where 
the waiters male, having been used to pitching hay, serve the 
edibles in like manner, and where the waiters female, being 
American, and having to sustain the National dignity, glare at 
would-be eaters, and move around as if their corsets were instru- 
ments of torture and the dining-room the Hall of the Inquisition. 
But the food they reluctantly serve is good. 

It is pleasant to see how Aunt Eunice has entirely conquered 
her prejudice against bugs. The Professor sits at her side (some- 
how he is always found in that locality) and having unpicketed 
his four captives, transfers their pasture-ground to the table-cloth, 
where he re-pickets them, and then he and Aunt Eunice incite 
them to graze upon bread-crumbs, much to the interest of guests 
and waiters. Another thing the Professor has learned, which is to 
talk into Aunt Eunice’s trumpet in such a confidential tone that 
we cannot understand. And to judge from her countenance, the 


Chap. IX. 


FAB VAN'S.— 4g 


tone or the conversation or the speaker or all three, are enjoyable. 
During the first part of our acquaintance with him, he had taken 
at every meal all his bottles of bugs from his various pockets and 
ranged them in a semicircle around his plate, studying their 
actions during the progress of the meal, and commenting there- 
upon, which comment sometimes verged upon hortation. But we 
gently, though unanimously, protested, when we had neared the 
candor line of acquaintance, intimating that while unbottled bugs 
might be endured, or perhaps in the far-distant future even 
enjoyed, during gustatory occupation, bottled bugs could not be — 
that we drew the line at the Picketed : and he gracefully yielded. 

There is a quartette near us, in whom Jemima and I take as 
much interest as they in the captives, that interest lying solely in 
speculation as to which is the wife of the man, and as to whether 
she, whichever she is, waxes the end of his beard — which reaches 
far down his chest, terminating in a horn with an exceedingly sharp 
point — or whether he does it himself. As to one, her hat curves 
up and her nose curves up and her upper lip curves up and her 
lower lip curves down and her chin curves down, and she is all 
curves (but not lines of beauty), except her body, which is all 
angles (but not right angles). The second looks as if she were 
suspended from an invisible hook in the ceiling by an invisible 
cord attached to the knot on the top of her head, so tightly is her 
hair drawn up on all sides, while the nostrils of the third quiver, 
when she smiles, like the lips of a snarling dog, so that she gives 
one the pleasing impression that she is about to bite. We have 
just pitched upon her of the curves and angles as the wife of him 
of the defensive beard, her meed of attention being the smallest, 
when the cord suddenly pulls the Suspended up out of her chair 
with a jerk, and eight glance-darts, tipped with a scorn that should 
shrivel, are hurled at our unconscious entomologically- interested 
pair, and with the remark that people had better feed their children 
instead of bugs, they stalk majestically away. Uncle Robert roars, 
Jemima and I try not to snicker, and Aunt Hepzibah is maliciously 
pleased (for she hardly approves of the Professor’s attentions), and 
she at once repeats with emphasis. Aunt Eunice colors and is 
indignant, while the Professor is fairly drowned in scarlet, emerg- 
ing with a sheepishness of expression that argues the detected 
swain. 

s 


so— A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. IX. 


Dinner over, Jemima and I wander over to the “tourists’ 
parlor ” at the station, where tourists are supposed to rest and 
gather information from the agent or parlor-keeper, whose sole 
business and interest in life seems to be to give information — of a 
seemingly pleasing and sometimes blush-calling character — to the 
pretty clerkess, whose sole occupation would appear to be to bear 
him company and receive said information. Jemima instantly ^ 
scents a romance ; whereupon, as we stroll away over the sur- 
rounding fields, I tell her that she is right — that her acumen and 
penetration are seldom at fault — that there is indeed a romance in 
real life. That separated by Cruel Fate (disguised as her mother), 
they had flown to these inhospitable wilds — “ But they live at the 
hotel,” says Jemima. “True,’’ I reply, “but still the wilds are 
inhospitable. They therefore flew to these inhospitable wilds, 
where, in the company of Nature and of each other — ” “But 
don’t tourists go there sometimes ?” again interposes my wife. 

“ Again true,” I rejoin, “ but that is a mere accident. Where, in 
each other’s company, they are at this moment planning an 
escape — ” “ But why did the railway company build that pretty 

parlor-house ; and aren’t they paid ?” “ Ah, my dear, that was 

one of the noblest, most philanthropic acts that ever a railway 
company — noted for its acts of disinterested charity, as all railway 
companies are — ever performed. To bring two yearning hearts 
into communion — to join two severed lives, this railway company, 
as a means thereto, built that — ” “ Now, John, you’re joking !” 

“Solemnly, my pet, I’m — ” but she throws a handful of daisies 
in my face, and runs away. In a few steps I am again by her 
side, and find her busily engaged in telling her fortune from a 
rapidly dismembered flower. 

“ One, I love. 

Two, I love. 

Three, I love, I say ; 

Four, I love with all my heart, 

Five, I cast away. 

Six, he loves. 

Seven, she loves. 

Eight, they both love ; 

Nine, he comes, 

Ten, he tarries. 


Chap. IX. 


FAB VAX'S.— Ji 


Eleven, he courts, 

Twelve, he marries. 

One, I love, 

Two, I love. 

Three, I love, I say ; 

Four, I love with all rny heart, 

Five, I cast 

No I don't!" 

The last petal stands untouched. It and its now barren stalk 
are flung aside, and the hands that have plucked it are clasped 
behind my neck. “ Cast you away, my darling — cast away my 
life, my soul, my all ? Never ! Hateful flower, to tell me that I 
shall cast my love away !” 

And two young (and foolish ?) persons, who have only given 
their very lives to each other, having but little else to give, live- 
over again, amid the bright-eyed daisies, who nod their heads, 
approvingly, the story of their love, a story not yet old and worn 
while the shadows from the solemn mountains creep to and over 
them, and the sun goes down, to smile upon a western world that,., 
with her hovering clouds, shall blush at his approach. 


CHAPTER X. 

Mount Washington; a Story, and a Legend. 

As we stood on the platform waiting for the train for the Summit 
House, Uncle Robert treated us to a sensation. A long, straight 
piece of track stretches past the station, and a light freight train 
was observed approaching. Without informing us of his intention, 
he strolled down the track toward the train, and stood in the 
centre, calmly awaiting its approach. It came thundering on, but 
he did not move. The whistle sounded sharply, but still he stood 
his ground. Aunt Hepzibah screamed, Victorine followed suit, 
and Bolus tore toward him. But just as it seemed as if he must 
be run over, he stepped quietly aside and the train passed by, the 
engineer leaning out of his cab window and gesticulating curses on 
his adventurous head. To describe the scene which followed, 
would be but to trace the passage of the wifely mind from keenest 
anxiety to keenest wrath. If Uncle Robert’s life had been in 
danger then, it was doubly so now ; but he bore the tongue- 
lashing with smiling equanimity, merely remarking that he wanted 
a variety, and had had it. And he had; for, for once in his 
married life, he had risen from the position of cipher to that of 
unit. As he afterwards remarked to me, he had always had a 
curiosity to see how a rapidly moving train looked coming on 
dead ahead, and he said it simply grew — didn’t appear to move, 
but only grew larger and larger — and that the fascination was 
much like that which a bird probably experiences in the presence 
of a snake approaching to devour it — it was difficult to move from ' 
its path. Uncle Robert rose considerably in my estimation, not- 
withstanding his foolhardiness. 

But now all are put aboard and puff away, while I start off 
afoot at 2.05 for the same goal, my route being the carriage road 
to the Base Station and the railroad thence to the top, there being 
no other foot-way from Fabyan’s. 

A pretty road, winding in and out of the sparse timber and 
along the brawling Mount Washington River; past one or two 


Chap. X. 


MOllNT WASHINGTON.- 


—53 


deserted houses, a deserted saw-mill, and a deserted Half- Way- 
House ; past innumerable butterflies, that flutter and inconsequen- 
tially dart around like double gold coins, and are as quickly gone ; 
through a toll-gate (at the beginning) where toll is charged the 
now infrequent carriage (no wonder they built the railway extension 
from the Base Station to Fabyan’s); gently ascending, with two or 
three crossings of the Mount Washington River, and at 3.52 (I 
like to be exact) I am at the Base Station, which is six and a half 
miles from and 150 feet above Fabyan’s, which is 1,571 feet above 
the sea, the Base Station being also the junction of the branch of 
the main line from Fabyan’s and the Mount Washington R. R. 
proper. A few steps on, the round house. Near the round house 
a tavern. In the tavern a glass of beer (thermometer 90° in the 
shade, and water very bad, total abstinence advocates). The round 
house left at 4.17 (again exact) and the real climb begun. 

And a climb it is. Imagine walking three miles up a slippery 
pair of open stairs, often twenty or thirty feet above the rocks, and 
you have it. For the railway is built on trestles, from a foot to 
thirty feet above the ground. The only pathway is the ties, and 
they are slippery from oil in places and everywhere else from the 
polishing of rain and snow and some few feet, and incline their 
surfaces, of course, at the angle of the elevation of the road, 
which is often from twenty to forty degrees ; consequently, as 
one’s foot will not hold at that angle, one is obliged to tread upon 
the upper edge of the tie, with the rocks and earth apparently 
racing away underneath. 

The forest towers on either hand, and the stillness is broken 
only by the tiny denizens of rock and wood, whose voices sound 
drowsy in the heat. The forests trees dwindle to shrubs; the 
shrubs disappear in grass ; the grass dies in rock and barren earth, 
and the glory of the view lies below. Below, Fabyan’s and the 
Base Station, with the narrow line of the track creeping sinuously, 
with hidings and appearings, up the vast slope. Beyond, little 
valleys with peaceful meadows and shining water ; forests, here 
greenly black, fading into dim and misty blue ; jagged peaks , 
tree-covered summits; a chaos of mountain and hill, of valley 
and plain, of rock, earth, water and wood, and the dreamy 
summer haze softly veils the distant hills, and makes the horizon 
that of fairy-land ; while the grandeur of the scene, the awful 


54 —^ BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


stillness of the mighty mountain, man’s puny strength and yet 
all-conquering will, fill the soul with reverence and awe, and with 
a strange and almost’fierce delight. 

I am nearing the top and the cloud; for the top has worn its 
cloudy veil all day, only two or three times relenting and beaming 
down upon me. Therefore as I hear a puffing far below, and an 
engine with its train of two cars appears, like some determined 
monster, literally gripping its way up th'e steep, I tarry for its 
coming, jump aboard as it passes by, and am puffed and jerked 
and laboriously lifted, through cloud and chilly air, to the Summit 
House. 

A hotel (now literally) in the clouds, and 6,292 feet above the 
sea ; a long, low, white structure, anchored by large chains to the 
rocks, and in front of it a long platform, which is also the railway 
station. 

A bath and supper, and we sit by the huge fire and read 
the Among the Clouds, a newspaper published up here; buy 
photographs; write letters on illuminated sheets of note-paper 
with dried Mount Washington flowers stuck through them ; look 
out, and wish the rain and mist were a clear sky; yawn, and 
wonder what we can do to while away the winter-seeming evening. 

Uncle Robert feebly proposes cards, which proposition is met 
with chilly silence. The Professor coughs, and complains of his 
throat (Jemima told me he had shouted to Aunt Eunice the whole 
way up), and Jemima says if some one only had a story to read 
aloud how jolly it would be, sitting around the light from the open 
fire. We all say we wish we had, but we haven’t; when a stout 
individual, who has been sitting in abstracted fashion, with each 
outstretched arm supported by the thumb on each knee, suddenly 
wakes up, and says that if mademoiselle (Jemima colors) will 
pardon him, he has a story in his trunk which may interest her, 
and which it will give him pleasure to read aloud for our (he 
evidently means her) benefit. We shower him with thanks, from 
which he escapes, dripping as it were, and presently returns with 
a magazine, when we insist upon installing him in the most com- 
fortable chair in the great, square hall ; and, drawing closer around 
the fire, we sink into attitudes comfortable for listening. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, “this story was brought 
to my mind by the place where we are, and is called 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT Db MIDL-~S5 


THE DENT DU MIDI. 

PROLOGUE. 

I. 

The little billiard room of the Cafe echoed with the clicking of 
the balls, as they flew frantically, and for the most part meaning- 
lessly, around the solitary table, also little, standing in the centre of 
the room, and made dents in the ancient and flabby cushions, which 
barely sent them off again on their wandering excursions. The 
green cloth of the table was specked with chalk, and all around the 
edges the battered cushions were black and shiny with the grease 
of generations of leaning hands. On the deal table, in the corner, 
stood a smoking cup of cafe noir, with its attendant decanter of 
eau de vie, while another cup sent forth its steam from the top of 
the huge, round, brass-banded porcelain stove. Two persons 
were dabbing away at the contemptible little balls, and causing, 
with all the cracking, but a slight and long-intervalled movement 
of the curious counters, like the “ Ins ” and “ Outs ’’of an office 
directory, nailed against the wall. One of them, pending a slowly 
calculated shot upon the part of his comrade, looked yawningly at 
the prints of Swiss heroes, and French generals with moustaches 
ending in needle-like points standing out at exact right angles with 
their pointed beards, till his gaze wandered through the open 
window to the towering peaks on the opposite side of the valley, 
and rested almost unconsciously on the nearest and most sublime, 
lifting its pointed top, a ragged mass of spire-like rocks, touched 
here and there with gleaming bits of snow, up into the western sky. 
For a moment he gazed vacantly ; but soon a gleam shot into the 
dark grey eyes, a gleam of purpose and endeavor, and he turned 
suddenly to his companion. 

“ Miro, have you been up the Dent du Midi ?” 

Miroslas Kupsc lifted his black and almond-shaped eyes from 
the now scarcely moving balls, whose futile dashes he had been 
watching with a pensively mournful air, and looked inquiringly 
around. 

“ Ees eet zat I haf mounted zee Dent du Midi, vat you say ?*’ 

“ Just that.” 

“ Non, I haf not mounted him.” 


J6—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


“ Well, what do you say to trying it ? You know it won’t take 
over two days, and the view from the top is superb, almost all 
Switzerland lying spread out like a map before you, and — ” But 
here the patience of Miroslas gave out, and he poured forth a tor- 
rent of French to prove that English could be spoken faster than 
any language extant, and that of all persons whose native tongue 
was that horrible speech, no one ever talked as fast as his very good 
friend, Frank Forester — for to poor Miroslas perfect English was 
a something to be attained in the dim and distant future, and only 
after much trial and vexation of spirit. 

The wordy torrent ceasing, slower speech spread its gentle 
current over the two, and consequent intelligence, instead of dazed 
vacuity, shone from both pairs of eyes. With cues now thumping 
the resounding floor to enforce arguments, and now serving as 
leaning-posts during patient waiting for the end of some disap- 
proved speech, they strode the room and talked, until the upshot 
of it all was reached when Frank said, “ Then we start to-morrow 
afternoon at three?’’ 

“ C' est Men," said the other, pulling the long bell-rope, an 
embroidered and fly-specked piece of heavy cloth that hung near 
the door. 

The blue-eyed and short-skirted maiden appearing, payment 
for billiards and coffee, some ridiculously small sum, was chinked 
into her extended palm, and with a boiijour the two friends betook 
themselves down the steep stone staircase, past the peasant- 
haunted cafe, and disappeared in the old Hotel des Bains, whose 
galleried and elm-shaded front faced the room from which they 
had come. 

II. 

The afternoon sun shone brightly over the beautiful valley of 
the Rhone ; here lighting up the meadows to a deep, resplendent 
green, darkened by the patches of shade cast by the dotting apple 
trees ; there gleaming whitely on the long lines of road winding 
in and out among fields and trees, and stretching themselves 
towards distant Aigle, Monthey, and St. Maurice ; and still further 
on, sparkling and glinting on the turbid waters of the Rhone, as 
they rushed on their way toward their first resting place, the 
Lake. 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT DU MIDI— JZ 


And underneath the glorious sky and smiling sun, leaving 
behind them quaint old Bex, nestling at the foot of the vine-clad 
and chestnut-crowned Montex, behold the two upon their way, 
equipped for mountain work with alpenstock and hob-nailed 
shoes, and flask wherein lies, clear and limpid, the distilled nectar 
of the Swiss cherries. A goodly pair they are, although their 
national peculiarities stand out prominently, forming a marked 
contrast. The American, tall and meager, like most of his race, 
strides over the white road with a long swinging step, which stirs 
the waves oFhis brown hair, and betrays muscle and life through- 
out his frame, and brings a transient color to his cheeks, paled 
from childhood by the nervous air of his native land. The other, 
shorter and stouter, looks almost the Tartar, with swarthy skin 
and raven hair, and mayhap some Tartar blood does flow 
through his Russian veins. But although thus unlike, they are 
bound together by one of those warm travelers’ friendships 
which ofttimes make of chance acquaintances lifelong friends. 

The Massonger bridge echoed under their passing footsteps ; 
but before they had crossed its wooden length, they glanced up 
the sunny valley, and the beauty of the picture spread before them 
stopped them on their way, and they leaned on the parapet, and 
gazed upon its quiet grace. 

A little beyond them the mountains sent out rocky spurs from 
east and west, which, filling up the narrow valley, advanced in 
broken terraces toward the Rhone, and walled its banks with 
precipices. From side to side over the water, grey with the debris 
from its parent glacier, sprang a fairy arch, one perfect curve 
beneath, growing so light and fragile toward its centre, that 
scarcely did it seem able to bear the weight of the laden peasant, 
bending under the burden of his hotte, who crept slowly along 
the road that crossed it. And further yet in the distant south 
gleamed and glistened in the bright sun a snow-clad peak, whose 
dazzling top was almost lost in the glow of the sky, so white and 
pure and ethereal it rose ; while underneath the springing arch were 
caught glimpses of a fair, still valley, dotted with little towns and 
glittering church spires, filling up with their bright beauty the 
stone-framed picture. And on the hither side of this same picture, 
and facing this wondrous bridge, rose an ancient chateau, clinging 
to the rocky sides of the rising mountain, and bearing on its 


j8—A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


curious, rounded, peaked turrets, strange weather-cocks, perched 
high on their supporting poles, and veering in the changeful 
breeze; while all around the ancient building were fortified 
ascents, and fort-like walls, pierced by long, narrow loop-holes, 
which also dotted its rising towers. And on the further side of 
the stream, the sun shone whitely on the precipitous rocks, and 
shimmered on the patches of moving water revealed here and 
there by the river’s winding banks, while high up across the blue, 
black, speck-like crows winged their slow way, seeming almost to 
touch the light and fleecy clouds which sailed along their path, 
and sending down ghostly caws before they vanished into the 
thick gloom of the forest-clad mountain side. 

“ Looking at pictures won’t get us to Champery, Miro,” said 
Frank, “and if we want to see its lights to-night, we had better 
move on.” 

“ C'est bien vrai," responded Miroslas ; and forthwith their 
march was resumed. 

Their footsteps clattered over the stones of Massonger’s 
streets, as they passed through the little hamlet, and then fell with 
a softer beat as they struck out again into the road. 

Past Chouex’s height, crowned with its old church and scat- 
tered houses, they tramped ; through Monthey’s quaint streets, 
where they paused a moment to drive away the afternoon’s heat 
with huge drafts of beer, and soon they were zig-zagging up the 
slopes of the Val d’llliez, toward Champery. Up, up, always up; 
now by the white and gradual ascent of the post-road ; now by the 
steeper grade of an old bridle-path, cobblestoned and slippery ; 
past vineyards, bristling with their short, stake-supported vines ; 
now plunging into little clumps of hemlocks, where the sunlight 
came through the feathery branches in glints and shafts of white 
light, and brightened their dark shadows in patches ; now past 
some dirty and picturesque chalet, with its combination, under one 
roof, of habitation, hay-loft, and cow-yard ; and as the sun sank 
behind the mountains in front of them and left their path in shadow, 
they came out upon the long and gradual incline of the road which, 
high up the valley’s side, leads to Champery. Following this a 
little way, and half rounding a projecting spur of the mountain, 
they were brought face to face with another of those pictures which 
the greatest of all artists. Nature, paints in ever varying colors. 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT DU MIDI.— sg 


Far below them lay the valley from which they had come, 
half in shade and half in sunshine, cleft by the silver line of the 
Rhone, while from below their feet they caught the faint murmur 
of the Val d’llliez’s torrent, as it brawled on its way toward the 
larger stream. On the hither side of the valley Monthey lay, a 
dim white cluster in the surrounding green, encircled by its grey 
vineyards ; and, at the foot of the opposite slope, Bex sparkled 
and burned from a hundred sunlit windows and star-like weather- 
cocks, while the vast shadows of the western mountains crept 
slowly eastward across the fields. Now the silvery light of the 
Rhone goes out, and the river is but a dim grey line ; the last 
weather-cock flashes in a gleam of gold, and the reddening light 
mounts high and higher up the rugged mountain side. The black 
green of the hemlocks is tinged with its glare, and jutting points 
of rock gleam from their masses, like bright jewels in some dark 
setting, while higher up, the Alpine pastures catch the glow, and 
lie in yellow slopes toward the west. When suddenly the long 
line of fantastic peaks stretched against the pale blue of the 
eastern sky, a mass of grey and ragged rock, flushes a bright and 
rosy red, which, deepening in its hue, sets every projecting cliff 
and slender spire ablaze with crimson light, until the mountain 
tops seem beacon fires — signals of the approach of night. Redder 
and redder they burn ; deeper and deeper they blush beneath the 
ardent gaze of the setting sun ; until the shadow spreads its pall 
over their topmost heights, and they stand in ever darkening grey, 
part of the sleeping world. Long wreaths of mist begin to twine 
their shadowy forms around their feet ; the gloom of the valley 
deepens into night, and from the blackening blue the evening star 
gleams whitely above the horizon, forerunner of the host which 
soon shall stud the sky. 

And underneath that sparkling host, beaming down like loving 
faces of those not lost but gone before, the travelers tramp over 
the darkened road; and as they walk, the Russian hears, mur- 
mured by his side, as if the speaker were in some far off, by-gone 
scene : 

Like the mountain my life, like the sun her smile, 

In its absence, I, lone and drear, 

Wait and watch, watch and wait through the long dark night, 
’Til at morn it again appear. 


6o— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


Champery’s lights gleamed in the distance — points of orange 
flame from the deep black of the hillside. Into its little cluster 
of hotels and chalets they strode, and the glowing square of the 
door of the Hotel de la Croix Federale swallowed them up. 

“Let’s go into the salo7i, Miro, and see who’s here,” said 
Frank, as, refreshed by water without and wine and dinner within, 
they came with slippered feet out of the salle a 77tanger. So into 
the saloTi they went, and saw therein that heterogeneous assemblage 
which is only possible in a Swiss hotel “ in the season.” French- 
men — a few — dark and moustached and effervescent with word and 
gesture ; Englishmen — ye gods, how many ! — whose clothes fairly 
broke out in plaids, )vhose aw-ing speech was everywhere loudly 
audible, and whose “ women folks ” were dressed with an ingenuity 
in ugliness impossible to be surpassed, and which seems to be the 
normal condition of the traveling Englishwoman. A sprinkling 
of other nationalities, German, Russian, Swiss, American, etc., and 
among them all one small group, which instantly arrested Frank’s 
attention by a certain something which characterized the women 
who composed a part pf it, and which made him almost sure that 
they were his countrywomen. He was about to point out this 
circumstance to Kupsc, when one of the ladies turned so that her 
features became visible. In an instant Frank’s face turned to 
marble, and he clutched the shoulder of his friend for support, 
while he stared at her as at one risen from the dead. For a 
moment he stood thus, while Miro gazed in wonder, and then 
suddenly turned and left the room with the manner of a man 
utterly dazed. 


THE BEGINNING. 

I. 

The scene changes ; and tracing the footprints of Time, we 
follow backward his path through a year and more, and, upborne 
by all-powerful imagination, speed through the fogs and storms 
and over the waves of the Atlantic, and staying our course on the 
sandy shores of Cape Cod, become witnesses of the beginning of 
the little drama whose ending may be for the weal or for the woe 
of the actors in it. 

“Miss Lee — Mr. Forester,” and Mr. Forester finds himself 
standing beside a little figure in black, around whose neck and 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT DU MIDI .— 6 1 


wrists the daintiest of white something — airy and gossamer-like — 
is wreathed, showing by its purity the creaminess of the skin it 
touches, and looking down into a pair of deep blue eyes, in whose 
depths the lights and shades come and go, as over some quiet 
lake. A few words of introductory talk — in which, however, the 
weather has no share — and Frank says, “ Will you not take my 
arm. Miss Lee, and come out on the piazza, where I am sure you 
will find it much cooler?” — for her fan was beating the air in 
quick strokes, trying to extract some coolness from its heated 
breath, and apparently with but indifferent success. 

So they made their way through the crowded parlor, filled 
with the bustle of arrivals and departures, and the buzz of talk — 
as if some great bee had settled down in the room, and his misty 
wings were filling all its length and breadth with their hum — and 
passing through an open window, found themselves under the 
soft, starlit beauty of a summer night. Far away to the south 
stretched the great plain of water, blacker than the sky above 
them, and moaning in its restless sleep, while all along the shore 
at their feet the waves came rolling in, in long lines of white 
light — glowing with the fire of the sea — and breaking on the 
sandy beach, scattered glittering, star-like embers over the wet 
sand, to lie there fading, until the next rush of water bore them 
away and left others in their place. Behind them the great hotel 
blazed from its hundreds of windows, and resounded with the 
music of its band and the patter of dancing feet ; and further yet, 
the pine woods stretched away, until they and the horizon were 
blended in one. 

“Many thanks, Mr. Forester,” she said, “for bringing me 
out into this cool quiet. I don’t know whether it is to your taste 
or not, but to me the murmur of the sea, and the song it sings, are 
better than the music of any band, play they never so well.” 

To which Frank replied, as in duty bound — and, to his 
praise be it said, he meant it — that he heartily agreed with 
her, and would be only too glad to pass every evening in that 
way. 

So they sat and talked, while the audacious breeze played 
with the dark beauty of her hair, and kissed her cheeks^ and 
smoothed her white forehead with gentlest touch, until the dim- 
ming of the lights behind them recalled them to the lateness of the 


62— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


hour, and they left the sea to moan out its sorrows to the stars and 
the sand and the distant woods. 

And to the walls of their respective rooms were uttered these 
sentiments : 

“ He’s rather handsome — a trifle conceited though, but not 
enough to hurt him — and says he is fond of sailing. He asked 
whether I was. I suppose that means he is going to take me out. 
I hope mamma will like him, and, well — that he won’ t go away 
to-morrow.” 

“Stunning girl, that; talks like a book. Blue eyes, dark 
hair, cheeks just enough color in them, nose a trifle— not pug, but 
piquant, you know. Flirts, I’ll be bound. Hope she’ll stay. By 
Jove, I’m in luck !” 

The next day Frank was introduced to Mrs. Lee, and found 
her an amiable, middle-aged lady, inclined to stoutness and 
novels and little be-ribboned caps and naps and quiet in general, 
and ready to leave her daughter to her own devices. All this 
pleased him immensely, and he spent the entire day in cultivating 
her good graces and jn discovering her likes and dislikes, one of 
which last, he found, was the sea. 

The following morning, with a fine assumption of interest, 
he went up to her and said : 

“ The day promises to be so fine, that I have come to ask if 
you won’t do me the favor to go out for a sail, and perhaps Miss 
Lee will go too” — turning to Florence — “if she is not afraid of 
the water.” 

“You are very kind,” replied the mamma, “and I’m sure I 
should be delighted to go, if it were not for the fact that I’m 
always sea-sick. As for Florence ’’ 

“ You know I’m never sea-sick, mamma.” 

“ If you cannot go, Mrs. Lee, and if you will allow Miss Lee 
to go without you, I will promise to take very good care of her,” 
said Frank. 

“ Well, I don’t know,” began Mrs. Lee ; when Florence put in 
a “ But, mamma,” and Frank prudently retired to gaze absorbedly 
at a fly on the window-pane, until such time as victory should 
perch upon the younger’s banners — which he felt sure would be 
the case. And his confidence was not without foundation, for, 
saying, “ I will be down in a moment, Mr. Forester,” Florence ran 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT DU MID L~6j 


up stairs, and soon appeared in a boating costume which was 
ravishing to behold, and had, as it were, the breath of the waves 
in its folds. When they reached the boat, she observed that it 
was prepared for but two people, but she did not remark upon her 
discovery. 

Thus was the way paved for, many another sail. Sometimes 
they two went off alone on that most interesting of all expeditions, 
“crabbing;” wherein eyes become tired of watching the water, and 
naturally seek other and doubtless more interesting, because more 
animating, objects. Wherein the lazy leaning over the side of the 
drifting boat is provocative of much day-dreaming and conse- 
quent conversation, which, at any pause or embarrassing point, is 
easily quickened or changed by the alarm of crabs, be it imaginary 
or real. Wherein care must be taken that delicate fingers are not 
nipped in the wildly waving claws of their crabships, and wherein 
lunges after these be-legged gentlemen are the cause of some 
screaming and much clinging to the sides of the boat — or any- 
thing else that presents itself. 

Sometimes they went, in company with a skipper who had 
endeared himself to them both by his deafness and much looking 
after his sails, to distant Nantucket, and, after plunging wildly 
into the ice-cream dissipations of the island, came home by the 
light of a harvest moon, which beamed over them so tenderly, and 
paved with gold, for their delighted eyes, a tossing pathway 
toward the sunrising. 

Or, tiring for the nonce of these pleasures of the sea, they 
took long drives through the dim and dusky pines, when the quiet 
shades of twilight fell over all the land, tempting out sweet and 
tender thoughts and words by the magic of its hush, which, like 
some fair flowers, shrink back abashed before the glare and glitter 
of the noonday sun. And these were drives to live in memory : 
for the narrow road, carpeted with the fallen needles of the pines, 
wound in and out among the shadows, and every now and then 
came unexpectedly upon open glades bright with the moonlight’s 
yellow glow and fringed with the fantastic outlines of the sombre 
trees, which made the blackness further on seem deeper and 
more dense. 

So the days flew by, until the night was but a gap, to be 
bridged over with ill-concealed impatience, between the pleasures 


64 — A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


gone and those to come. Until the mere touch of her hand, the 
passing brush of her dress, the sound of her voice, sent a thrill 
through all Frank’s frame, which was to be explained in but one 
way. Until bright firesides, and cosy little homes, and various trips 
'ranging over the known world, in all of which but two figures 
were the actors and possessors, so beset his waking and sleeping 
hours, that, unless he were by her side, he was as one daft, and the 
wonder and ridicule of all his friends. 

And she — did she have no dreams, did no fair pictures dance 
before her eyes and brighten their deep blue and make their 
glances soft and lustrous, even though they shot through the 
sparkling mist of tears — happy tears ? Far be it from this historian 
to drag before the public eye the phases of a maiden’s heart! 
Let that heart lie beneath the snowy bosom unmolested, and with 
it all its hopes and fears, save those that look forth from the 
windows of the eyes. They said — those who watched her — ^that 
her eyes, during these days, wore a dreamy, far-away look, as of 
one who gazes into a distant future, in which many things, as yet 
unknown, loom distantly, like land yet indistinct along the 
horizon’s level line, which may bear within its hazy blue all 
possibilities of field and flower and sunny plain and deep, dark 
woods, through which flow silent rivers, and high mountains 
jagged with frowning precipices and noisy with many a torrent. 
And her face, said they, grew daily more content, more soft, more 
womanly, until the radiance of its smile was dazzling to the 
lookers-on, and its changing lights and shadows — bright lights, 
soft shadows — reminded them of some fair landscape lying 
beneath the loving beams of a summer sun, and shaded, not 
obscured, by the light and fleecy clouds — breath of some calm 
lake, lying like a quiet thought between its shaded banks — which 
sail above it in the sky and throw their flying shadows on the 
sward. 

II. 

It was a witching night. During the entire day that was past, 
Frank had been on the sharpest 'and most annoying of tenter- 
hooks, looking with an anxious, angry eye at every cloud that 
threatened rain, and rendering the life of the livery-stable keeper 
a burden to him, by his frequent visitations to, and inspections of, 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT DU MIDI.— 63 


the pony-phaeton which he had engaged for the evening. For 
this evening, he had determined, should resolve probabilities into 
certainties. (Do you deem him presumptuous in thinking them 
probabilities, fair reader ? Should he have thought of them only as 
the remotest possibilities ? Should not a man look before he leaps ?) 

The day drew to a close. Supper came somehow to an end — 
it is to be regretted that Frank didn’t eat much, although it was 
probably natural — and the phaeton appeared, drawn by an animal 
who was wise in his day and generation, and knew how to take 
care of himself. The hotel disappeared behind the pines ; the 
scattered houses of the little village kept it company, and no 
voices sounded near them but the whispers of the pines, as they 
and the breeze talked together in the deepening twilight. The 
stars came out one by one as they drove along ; winked knowingly 
at them, as if well used to such company, and seemed to laugh at 
their vain efforts at conversation. 

For truly were their efforts vain. At last Florence hit* upon 
some subject — the latest arrival it was — and talked it into such 
threadbare shape, that even Frank must have seen the pretense, 
if his own brain had not been in such a whirl. “ How very calm 
she is,” he said to himself, “ and how interestedly she talks of those 
detestable Smiths, as if she really cared anything at all about them. 
I wish she would stop and give a fellow a chance.” 

But had he known at what a mad rate that little heart was 
beating beneath the calm exterior of its owner, he would have 
plucked up instant courage, and have thought kindly of the 
Smiths— if he thought of them at all. 

But so it was that, disheartened by her apparent calmness, he 
let the way slip by in idle chatter— how idle and hollow and utterly 
unnatural it seemed to them both— until their journey’s goal was 
reached, and they must retrace their way. The pine woods left 
them, and they suddenly emerged from their gloom into the broad, 
full light of the risen moon, on the shore of the sea. It was their 
goal, and yet was not their goal. The goal of both their hopes 
was as yet unreached, the gate to which could be unlocked by 
such a little key, by three small words, but which, although so 
small, he did not seem to have the power to utter. 

They looked out on the scene spread before them, and then, 
by an impulse which neither could resist, into each other’s eyes. 

6 


66— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP, 


Chap. X. 


What need of words ? The moon who looked down upon them, 
sole spectator of their bliss, saw only a fair head, crowned with its 
glorious tresses, resting against a heart that beat tumultuously 
beneath its touch, as if that pillow were the one on which it had 
been nightly laid since infancy. Saw only a pair of full, red lips — 
but of what a mold ! — that ever and anon were shut out from its 
light by other intervening lips, which by their pressure sent the 
blood more hotly to her cheeks and deepened the love that looked 
out from her eyes. 

And what a scene they beheld, as they gazed over the heaving 
plain. Before them lay the sea, scintillating from each wave-top 
points of light, which gleamed for an instant above the changing 
hollows of greyish black, and then disappeared, only to flash out 
again in brighter colors. Far across the water, from the shore at 
their feet to the dim horizon, stretched a path of golden moon- 
beams, broadening and brightening as it neared its source, until 
all the horizon beneath the moon glowed with the fervor of its 
rays. From a distant point — a shadowy outline against the pale 
sky — a lighthouse shone faintly in the brighter moonlight, while 
all the curve of the shore from its glimmering star was broken 
into patches of light and shade, as the black pines ran out in 
promontories over the white beach. 

“Frank,” she said, as she lay gazing out over the scene, 
while the moonlight fell over the delicate outlines of her face 
and lit it up into greater beauty, “ if we could step back into the 
old days of fable, would you go with me to that far-away dreamy 
land to which that pathway leads across the sea, where the moon- 
light is ever as it is to-night, and where life is one long blissful 
dream, never ending, with no thought of all the cares that 
infest the real world around us ? ” 

“Would I ?” he replied, “ Would I not? Could you go any- 
where where I would not follow ? But don’t you think that, after 
all, this real world is the best, giving us the opportunity, as it does, 
to rejoice with each other, to sorrow with each other, to suffer for 
and with each other ? Are two lives ever so closely joined together, 
whose joint life has been all sunshine, as those where clouds — but 
not of their own forming — have sometimes obscured their sky, and 
driven them to the shelter of their mutual love? Are not the 
heat and the hammer-strokes necessary to weld the iron ? ” 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT DU MIDI.— 67 


Was the way home like the way thither? Did not the glow 
of a great joy light up every thought and word, and make it all 
too short ? 


III. 

' “ Florence,” said Frank, a few days afterwards, as they sat 
on the beach, “ I wish you wouldn’t have so much to do with 
that Mr. Smith.” 

She looked up in wonder, and with her eyes inquired what 
he meant. 

“ Well, you know,” he said, looking away from _her, and 
prodding holes in the sand with his cane, and carefully filling 
them up again, “he isn’t just the kind of man I like to have you 
with, he ” 

“ I can’t abide a jealous man,” she remarked in a general 
way, as if the sea and sky were her only listeners. 

“I’m not jealous,” he began; when she turned around to* 
him with an astonished look and said, “ Did I say you were ? 
Did I suppose you were ? It would be too absurdly ridiculous 1 
When a person is supposed to be jealous, he is also supposed to- ^ 
have some cause, and what cause have you, Mr. Forester ?’” 

“I don’t say I have any cause,” he answered, his face- 
darkening, for that “Mr. Forester” wounded him; “and not; 
having any, I am not jealous, but yet I only wished to warn you„ 
for ” 

“What have you against Mr. Smith ?” she interrupted, “ I’m 
sure I think him very nice.” 

“ Why, nothing that I can tell you, exactly. He makes an 
ass of himself though, parting his hair in the middle so ; and I am 
always reminded, when I look at him, of the coroner who said he. 
didn’t want any fee for sitting on the body of such a man — the 
operation was sufficient recompense in itself.” 

/ “ If that is all you have to say against him, Mr. Forester, I 

will leave you to collect some better* reasons for your premature 
assumption of marital authority;” and with that she rose, and 
calmly walked away from him and disappeared in the hotel, 
leaving him sitting in moody and injured silence, altogether for- 
getting to fill up the holes which spotted the sand around him with 
their cavities. 


68— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


Why did the waves, which but a little while ago had seemed 
to laugh through all their sun-lit foam, now moan and sob as they 
broke on the beach at his feet ? Why did the bright light, which 
had danced in silver over the broad sea, now shine with a hard 
glare that pierced his brain and made him shade his eyes 'from 
the metallic rays ? What invisible cloud had settled down over 
all the sea and land and sky, and turned all things grey and cold 
to his vision ? Only that of a lovers’ quarrel, you will say, and a 
very pitiful one at that. Truly it was a pitiful one ; but is the 
bee’s sting less painful because the bee is small ? Are not the 
sharpest, most poignant griefs often those which spring from 
pettiest causes ? “ Verily how great a matter a little fire kindleth ! ” 

And now it was all over, this bright dream which had lit up his 
existence with such a golden glow through the weeks gone by, 
and made life expand into one long happiness — a shining path- 
way from the spot where this sun first rose upon his dazzled eyes, 
to the portals of eternity, glorified by two bright figures passing 
through its gates of pearl, hand in hand. 

But could he blame himself alone as the cause of all this 
disaster ? Most bitterly did he curse his stupidity and utter want 
of tact ; but still the thought of the truly feminine injustice with 
which his warning had been received, a warning given only from 
the depths of his love for her — for he knew, as she could not, that 
Mr. Smith was no fit companion for her, and was pained to see 
that she was pleased with his attentions, although he did not for 
a moment believe that her love for him was estranged thereby — 
combined with his pride, and strangled the impulse to follow her 
and regain, at any cost, the favor he had lost. So he sat there 
absorbed in moody thought, stabbing the sand around him, and 
scattering its particles in grey, misty jets, until the sun sank into 
the distant west in a blaze of angry red, and the great bell of the 
hotel clanged out the supper-hour. And all through the evening 
he wandered alone over the star-lit beach, thinking of the little 
hand that only twenty-four hours ago — and it seemed as many 
years — had lain upon his arm, and with its pressure sent a thrill 
through all his frame. 

^ And she was, to that good lady her mother, a source of 
wonder and of no little annoyance that evening ; for she clung 
closely to her side in the hotel parlor, and yet was so distraite. 


Chap, X, 


THE DENT DU MIDL—6g 


that her answers to the occasional questions of the buzzing crowd 
shot often absurdedly wide of the mark, and occasioned many a 
covert smile and whispered inquiry as to the whereabouts of Mr. 
Forester. 


IV. 

The next morning Frank was tossing in an odorous fishing 
boat on the great watery plain, greyly lit by the coming day, and 
- thinking but little of the fish which sometimes attached them- 
selves, through no skill of his, to his hook. And when the 
fisherman with whom he was, had caught, for a wonder, all that 
his soul desired, they put back to land, riding over the silvering 
‘ red of the waves as the sun mounted higher and higher on his 
daily journey, only to find that Florence and her mother had just 
gone on a day’s excursion, and among the company was Mr. 
Smith (whose soul was tried within him at the extraordinary 
' iciness of Miss Lee), and that the chance for an explanation, for 
which he was now eager, had gone with them. 

While he was endeavoring, after his breakfast, to draw conso- 
f lation from his cigar, and signally failing in the attempt, a 
' telegram was put into his hand, which caused him to spring to his 
I feet with an exclamation of dismay, and inquire the time of the 
i next train. It told him of the rapidly approaching death of his 
^ mother from the effects of a sun-stroke, and begged him to come 
instantly, if he would see her alive. Never had his portmanteau 
I been packed in such a hurry ; and soon he was being whirled 
I toward the station. 

1 And now that he had leisure to think, his thoughts reverted 
? to Florence, and the probable effect upon her of his sudden and 
I unexplained departure. But it should not be unexplained, for he 
i would pencil a note telling her of his trouble, and imploring her 
to wait till he could come back and put everything right between 
[ them. He did so, and in it asked her to send him a note, if only 
: a line, to tell him that she would accede to his request. Arrived 
I at the station, he gave the note to the driver, with strict injunctions 
I as to its delivery ; the whistle shrieked, and he sped away toward 
j[ the great city. 

I “ Be jabers,” said Bryan, as half way back to the hotel he 
V thrust his hand into his pocket to make sure of the letter, and saw 


JO— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


the distended fingers appear below the rim of his coat, “ bejabers, 
if that pocket ain’t like me purrus, it’ll niver howld nothin’ at all at 
all ! Faix, what’ll his swateheart say — for it’s his swateheart I’m 
thinkin’ she is. But it’s herself won’t know nothin’ about it, if ye 
don’t be afther tellin’ her, Bryan, and ye’re not such a fool as that, 
be me sowl ! An’ it’s another she’ll be gettin’ t’morra annyway, an’ 
wan more or less ’ll make no difference ; ” and comforting himself 
with this conclusion, Mr. O’Leary rode home in the best of spirits. 


V. 

A still, darkened room ; a thin, white hand which lay motion- 
less and unknowing in his ; a last fluttering sigh — the breath from 
the spirit’s wings, as it took its flight to eternal rest ; a cold, dead 
form that lay so still and white amid the hushed footsteps which 
paused a moment, that loving, tear-stained eyes might take a last 
look at the features over which the sod would soon grow green, 
while all the air was heavy with the odor of the snowy flowers, as 
if, when Heaven’s gates opened wide for the new-come denizen of 
its bowers, some happy wind had caught the perfume of its smiling 
fields, and wafted it there to cheer those left behind ; a new-made 
grave within the City of the Dead, from whose storied hills the 
great Bay lay spread out wide and calm, fit image of that blissful 
sea around whose Heavenly shores the ransomed walk ; a lifeless 
home from which the loving spirit had forever fled, leaving behind, 
in many a piece of handiwork, sad memories of when she smiled 
upon him, and brightened all his life with her great mother-love — 
these were the scenes which greeted Frank upon his arrival at a 
home which he had so lately left, full of life and of anticipated 
enjoyment. 

And with this new-found sorrow mingled the bitterness of that 
which he had carried with him from the distant sea, and blackened 
the sunshine of his days as, a few weeks before, he would have 
thought impossible. And now his first thought was to retrace his 
steps, and try to regain the love without which life looked one long 
and dreary blank, only to be endured until kindly death should 
end its pain. So one grey,'misty day found him at the hotel door, 
eagerly inquiring whether Mrs. and Miss Lee were still there. 

“ They left day before yesterday, Mr. Forester,” replied the 
suave clerk. ” Is there anything I can do for you ?” 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT D U MIDI.— 71 


“ Nothing, thank you, except to give me a room for the night,” 
said Frank. “Did they say where they were going?” 

“ No, sir,” answered the clerk, “ they left quite suddenly, and 
probably forgot to leave directions as to where their letters should 
be sent. However, none have come for them.” 

Frank left his valise in his room, and then wandered down to 
the too well remembered spot, where this great sorrow had come 
upon him. And as he sat with his head bowed on his hands and 
called up, for the thousandth time, the scene there enacted, the 
sea, as if to comfort him in his great grief, sent its grey mist to 
enfold him in its soft arms and shut out from him all the hard, cold 
world, and sang for him a low, sweet lullaby to soothe his aching 
heart to rest. 

Ah, if he had only known how another heart had ached in 
this same spot ; how another head had been bowed on two little 
hands, and how the scalding tears had forced their way through 
the slender fingers and dropped upon the sand at his feet. But 
he did not. And although the sea moaned that it could not tell 
him, and sent its waves in long and pointed fingers up the beach, 
until they touched a tiny foot-mark still imprinted on the sand, 
and so tried to point it out to him, yet he could not understand, but 
carried with him from the place the woe he found there. 

THE END. 

I. 

“May I never see her again as long as I live ! ” Frank had 
said to Miro, when, after telling him the story, his friend had 
urged him to seek a reconciliation. “ Any woman who can 
deliberately throw away a man’s honest love for such a trivial 
cause as that, and leave him no opportunity for explanation, is 
utterly unworthy of such a love. No, no, old fellow, let the past 
lie in its grave, and do not urge me to resurrect it. It sleeps 
soundly, and would only awake to shadow our lives with more 
misery and heart-ache. So we’ll be off bright and early to-morrow 
morning for the top of the Dent, and lose old memories in the 
light from the glacier snows.” 

But although Miro said nothing more, he thought from the 
story told by Frank’s face in the salon, that those memories could 
not be so easily banished. 


>/2—A bachelors WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


So, in that utter stillness of the day’s first hours, before even 
the first faint streaks of the dawn have come to dimly light the 
eastern sky ; when the myriad insect voices which have rendered 
the past night vocal are hushed, and all nature is buried in its 
deepest sleep, and the stars still glow in flashing points of fire 
from the black sky, they made their stumbling way up the Val 
d’llliez, their footsteps echoing weirdly from the dead, dark 
houses as they passed through Champery’s little town, and 
crunching over the loose stones as they left the height on which 
it stands and descended toward the bottom of the valley ; crossed 
the noisy torrent on the slippery bridge of spruce poles, and 
commenced the long zig-zag ascent on the other side. ^ 

And as they mounted higher and higher, and at last, far 
above the tree line, which in its dark masses of spruce and pine 
and hemlock clothed the valley at their feet and made it seem 
some vast and yawning chasm, turned towards the chalets of 
Bonavaux, the east began to brighten across the valley of the 
Rhone, and the mountain peaks to show their black and ragged 
outlines against the paling sky, and the coming day shone, but 
dimly yet, on the light clouds which sailed above their summits. 
And as the faint grey light whitened their fleecy masses, and then 
dyed them slowly in ever deepening crimson, the sun flashed out 
from over the mountains, and all the peaks behind them brightly 
smiled their morning greeting, while the valley beneath, further 
from the heavenly light, still lay in shadow and darkness, brooded 
over by the mists of the night. 

Up, up, past the chalets, from whose doorless doors the cows 
looked sleepily at them, their bells already beginning the music 
which would, throughout the livelong day, tinkle over those 
upland pastures ; higher and higher, until their path led along the 
edge of a vast ravine which, in its precipitous depth, lay black 
and yawning at their feet ; and following this, they were suddenly 
greteed by a blast of icy wind, the breath from a gleaming glacier 
which lay in silent majesty in a mighty cleft in the mountain’s 
summit far above their heads. Scrambling over the slippery 
rocks, they came to the foot of a precipice, up which they dragged 
themselves by projecting stony points and tufts of grass and 
bushes growing in the crevices, and stood at length upon the 
summit of a col, or pass, and looked down into an enormous basin. 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT DU MIDI.— 73 


almost circular in its form, rimmed by the blue and white of 
encircling glaciers. Into this they plunged ; and crossing an ice- 
cold stream which, fed by the melting snows that everywhere 
towered above them, dashed across their path, they re-commenced 
the ascent, zig-zagging up over rocks polished here and splintered 
and crushed into fragments there by the weight of the ice and 
snow which had ground down over them in centuries past. Up 
and up, until a great valley or cleft stretched away before them 
toward the east, its southern and therefore shaded side a mass of 
ice and snow, which lined its sinuous length with glistening white, 
save where some precipice of blue-green ice showed its cold face, 
or a rocky needle shot up into the air, while the northern slope 
frowned in vast precipices of jagged rock, or showed the steep 
and smooth inclines of the treacherous pierres roulantes ; and 
all over the narrow bottom were strewn huge rocks in wild 
confusion, their surfaces cut smooth and polished by the vanished 
glaciers. 

“Miro,” said Frank, pointing to one of these, “if your angu- 
larities were as polished down as that rock’s, you would be one of 
the most perfect gentlemen in existence.’’ 

“And one of ze — vat you call him — most stoniest? Ah, 
mon Dieu, if ze leetle tings vat make to angry one, could slip 
zemselves off of one as zey do of zat rock, it would be a grand 
gaiety. It does feel nossing, it does hold nossing, it does care for 
nossing. Is it not veil, zat ?’’ 

“So well,” answered Frank, “that I would be content to 
stay here beside it, if I could do the same ; ” which speech, and 
the tone in which it was uttered, gave fresh evidence to Miro of 
the truth of his surmises as to those memories which were to be 
so easily lost up here among the glacier snows. But quickly 
recovering himself, Frank called out to the guide, "Maurice I 
Maurice Caillet ! Est il longtemps avant qtie nous ne mangeo7ts ? 
fai une faim what is a bear in French 1— Tours 

So, shortly thereafter, behold them encamped upon a rock, 
at whose foot there bubbled up a spring of purest icy water, issuing 
from the slowly melting snow which surrounded them on three 
sides with its dazzling purity. What marvelous quantities of good 
things that bearskin knapsack of Caillet’ s did contain ! And after 
they had washed down all that it was feasible to “ surround,” with 


y4— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


drafts of good red wine, cooled in snow, they once more girded 
up their loins, and prepared for the final ascent. 

Their way now lay up a long slope of the pierres roulantes, 
where at every step they sank into the fine, loose stones which 
gave way under their tread and went rattling down into the valley ; 
and, after they had reached its top, along the edge of the arete, or 
ridge, which stretched up in a broken slope to the foot of the dent 
itself— descending steeply in precipitous terraces, on the one side, 
to the valley from which they had just come, and on the other 
falling, a sheer precipice, three thousand feet to the valley below. 
And as they climbed on, the way became ever more difficult, and 
the steel points of their alpenstocks found firmer and more careful 
lodgment to support their steps. Around the face of precipices 
they crept, their bodies clinging to the towering wall which rose 
above their heads as they edged along the scanty foothold of pro- 
jecting rocks, while ever and anon some dislodged stone would 
fall from their pathway and, with a faintly heard crash, shiver on 
the rocks far below : waded across banks of snow that lay like 
huge monsters on the sloping mountain side, where a slip on the 
white surface would have shot the luckless one down the steep 
incline, to fly out into space over some lower precipice, and lie at 
its foot a shapeless mangled mass, and at last reached the foot of 
the dent, parched with thirst, and with veins throbbing from the 
intense heat, which, even upon the snow, beat down upon them. 
And as they looked around for water to quench their thirst, they 
espied a tiny rill which flowed almost in drops from the rocks at 
their side. Never was water more welcome; and filling their 
flasks, they started for the goal of all their labors — the glorious 
peak which reared its ragged points more than a thousand feet 
above their heads. 

With renewed strength and heightened courage they pressed 
on. Over those terrible rolling stones ; over rocks whose smooth 
surfaces presented but meagerest foothold, and where they climbed 
with hands and knees and toes; by the edge of precipices in 
whose giddy depths huge bowlders seemed but pebbles; till at 
last, with panting breath and trembling knees, they stood upon 
the topmost crag — a narrow, broken pinnacle, which hardly served 
to hold the three — and, eleven thousand feet above the ebb and 
flow of tide, drank in the pure cold air which circled round that 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT DU MIDI.— 73 


awful height, and gazed upon a scene which, in all its plenitude 
of light and shade; of richest coloring of earth and sky; of 
gleaming peaks and far-off misty plains ; of deep blue lakes and 
paler azure dome, will live, as long as memory holds its sway, to 
dim the eye with yearning for its matchless majesty. 

Raising its enormous bulk against the southern sky, Mont 
Blanc, the king of European mountains, shone from its crown of 
everlasting snow, sublime. Like some great cloud it stood, lifting 
its head far above all other peaks, fit emblem, in its spotless 
purity, of Him whose handiwork it was. And all around it needle 
points of ragged rock pierced the blue heavens, springing, black 
and savage, from the white fields of snow that clothed their feet. 
In the far east the Matterhorn raised high its pointed shaft, 
seeming the spire to Nature’s vast cathedral whose lesser pin- 
nacles rose around it, and in its slender beauty reigning queen 
consort with its snow-crowned king. Near it the Monte Rosa 
glistened in its raiment of snow, which the setting sun dyes in 
deepest crimson, while away to the north an array of white peaks 
piled their huge masses against the sky in wild confusion, as if the 
earth had burst into great waves, foam crested. Among them 
towered the Jungfrau and the Monch, and all the chain which 
looks down on the lakes of Thun, which, sweeping onward toward 
the west, ends in the Diablerets, grim with their saw-like teeth, 
and many a rocky peak shadowing Leman’s storied waves, whose 
blue and misty length stretched to Geneva’s towers. And further 
to the south the long hazy line of the Dauphine showed against 
the horizon, melting away’in the distance into the pale blue of 
the sky. 

Such was the distant view ; but what a world lay at their very 
feet. Far below them, seeming so near as almost to be reached 
by the outstretched hand, and yet dwarfed to Lilliputian size, lay 
the silver-threaded valley of the Rhone, studded with vine- 
encircled villages, and bordered by the deep green of the chest- 
nuts and spruces, over which towered the rocks of the Dent de 
Morcles and its chain. And right below them, so that a stone 
dropped soundless from their perch through seven thousand feet 
of air down to its hither side, the Val d’llliez wound up toward 
Champ6ry; while, on the other side from where they stood, 
lay the valley-cleft of Suzanfe through which they had come, 


r6—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X, 


separating them from the Tour Saliere, whose icy sides rose to 
almost their own altitude. 

“ It’s too grand for words !” Frank said ; and indeed few words 
had been spoken by any of them, save now and then an irre- 
pressible exclamation of wonder or delight ; for their stay was of 
necessity short, and every faculty was concentrated in the one of 
sight. For the cold wind was piercing them through and through, 
and Caillet was urging their departure. So they corked their 
names in a bottle for the benefit of future climbers, and com- x. 
menced the descent. 

Their route down the dent lay along the same path by which 
they had ascended ; but when they reached its foot, and prepared 
to descend to the valley of Suzanfe, the guide proposed to descend 
by an incline of the pie'rres roulantes, which swept down and out 
into the bed of the valley, broken by no precipices, but exceed- 
ingly steep. This, he said, would be much shorter and easier and, 
with caution, no more dangerous than the way by which they had 
come. So they started with long strides, plunging deeply at every 
step into the loose, gravel-like stones, and with alpenstocks trail- 
ing behind them, acting as brakes to check their speed. 

Faster and faster they went, urged on by an ever-growing 
excitement, till the strides became leaps, and the stones rushed 
down with them, a rattling stream. Frank was ahead, and, not 
knowing the danger he incurred, kept on, until, looking back, he 
saw his companions far up the mountain side, gesticulating wildly 
to him, and pointing to firmer ground toward which they were 
making their way. He slackened his pace and, endeavoring to 
comprehend their gestures, looked around him. He was in the 
midst of an avalanche ! All around him the finely broken stones 
were rushing downward, gathering volume and velocity as they 
rolled, until the entire mass was gradually loosened from its hold, 
and commenced to descend. Escape was a thing of the past, and 
to attempt it now would be to only waste the strength he still 
possessed. Seeing this he did not move, but, steadying himself 
with his alpenstock, awaited his dreadful ride. Swifter and swifter 
moved the stones — louder and louder became their roar, till his ears 
were stunned by the din, and his brain whirled, as, a mere speck 
on the surface of the mighty stream, he was hurled down towards 
the valley, the dust rolling up in clouds like the smoke of battle. 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT DU MIDI.— 77 


II. 

” Est ce qu'zl est mor/ 3.sked Miro, as, breathless and ex- 
hausted, he bent with Caillet over Frank’s apparently inanimate 
form, which they had found far out in the valley, partly covered 
by the debris of the avalanche. 

“ Non," answered Caillet, “ son cceur bat encore !" 

So they lifted him as gently as they could, and bore him to the 
spring by which they had eaten their dinner, which was near ; 
and after long and patient effort, by the aid of its cold water and 
the brandy in their flasks, he opened his eyes and gazed around 
him in a dazed, uncertain way, as if just roused from a heavy 
sleep. But when he tried to move, both his right arm and leg lay 
limp and helpless, and he sank back with a groan. 

“ Courage, courage mon ami," cried Miro, almost in tears at 
the sight of his friend’s misery, “ze neck it ees not broked, and 
ze arm and ze leg ve sail mend in not any time and with that 
he hastily took off his shirt, and tearing it into strips, bandaged 
the injured limbs, with Caillet’s assistance, as well as he could. 

Oh, that awful journey back again ! Down, down, down, the 
way seeming endless, and the poor helpless fellow whom they bore, 
racked with excruciating pain, and yet striving in such manly 
fashion to repress the groans that would come from his white lips, 
and trying, in a way that was pitiable to see, to help himself as 
they struggled with him over ice and snow and rocks, and made 
their slow way toward distant Champery. But “it’s a long lane 
that has no turning and at last, when the stars had again shown 
their burning points in the black sky, and the night wind moaned 
fitfully through the valley, they once more entered the glowing 
doorway of the Croix Federale — but oh, how differently! — and 
met, as they entered it, a little black-robed figure, whose neck and 
wrists were encircled by some snow-white gauze, and whose deep 
blue eyes gazed into theirs in frightened questioning, and then 
into the face of the now senseless figure borne between them. One 
glance was sufficient ; her own face blanched to the whiteness of 
his she looked upon, and she staggered against the wall. But 
recovering herself almost instantly, she made the usual inquiries 
as to the accident, and then slipped out of the crowd which was 
gathering fast around the injured man and his exhausted bearers. 


rS—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X, 


III. 

What touch was that, so soft and delicate, which roused 
Frank from his stupor as it passed gently over his forehead? 
Only that of a woman’s hand— only that of the young American 
lady, whose mamma, as the landlady volubly explained to every one, 
had known Monsieur in his own country, and who, as her mamma 
was so feeble, had offered her assistance, and was like an angel 
sent from the good God; for had she not given her a crucifix 
brought all the way from Rome, and was not her pocket always 
full of candies for the little son Jean, and did she ever grumble at 
the price of the wine ? No, no ! Mad’moiselle was a blessed saint,, 
and she loved her as her own daughter. 

And did that touch ever fail to rouse him ? Often would he 
pretend to be still asleep — for never was she, by any chance, at 
his side when she thought he was awake — and through his half- 
closed eyes would watch her, as she flitted noiselessly around the 
room putting everything in order, or sat working at some airy 
nothing, or started up at every movement from his bed, to come 
to his side and softly draw the covering over him, and 
bathe his heated forehead, and smooth back his hair, only to glide 
swiftly out v/henever he opened his eyes. And once — will he 
ever forget it ? — as he lay and watched her thus, she stood and 
gazed at him, her eyes growing softer and softer as she looked, 
until, while a deep blush spread over her cheeks, and dyed even 
her forehead and snowy neck with its crimson flood, she came 
close to him and, stooping over, imprinted one fairy kiss on 
his forehead as he lay, and then turned and fled like a startled 
deer. 

One day she came softly in and, thinking him asleep, moved 
around the room as was her wont, leaving order where she found 
chaos, until, reaching his bedside, she gently arranged his bandaged 
arm and was about to leave him, when he caught her hand and 
looking straight into her eyes said, “ Floy, won’t you stay ? ” 

As on that bygone night when looks were more than speech, 
so now they looked into each other’s eyes and saw there all they 
longed for, saw there what they had feared never again to see, the 
deep strong flame of love, which had smouldered beneath the 
ashes of the days that were gone — had only smouldered, not gone 


Chap. X. 


THE DENT DU MIDI.— rg 


out — and now burned clear and pure as when first kindled by the 
far off shore of the sea. 

And when, a little afterwards, she knelt at the side of his bed, 
and held his thin, pale face in both her hands, and kissed his lips 
and forehead with her sweet red lips, so perfect in their form, so 
bewildering in their touch, she said : Oh, darling, to think that 
we should both have wandered all this dreary time so far away 
from each other, each thinking the other false, and all the while 
each was loving the other so well ! And now that we have found 
each other, do you think, my own love, that we shall ever be 
parted so again ?” 

What he answered need not be told ; but she laid her head 
upon his breast, as if it had been her pillow ever since the night 
when the moon looked down upon them from over the golden sea. 

And in the heaven of their love the days flew by on rapid 
wings until, so far was he advanced upon the road to health, they 
left Champery’s little town ; rode down its straggling street ; passed 
out between its clusters of ancient chalets, where the Indian corn 
hung in long, yellow rows from the queer balconies f descended 
by the windings of the smooth white road far above the torrent 
which brawled, almost unheard, down the valley ; passed through 
Monthey’s quaint old town, and crossing the grey and rushing 
Rhone by Massonger’s wooden bridge, came back once more to 
lovely Bex, and the sheltering arms of the old Hotel des Bains. 

And one calm and sunny day, when the summit of the Dent 
and all the chains of mountains which hem in the smiling valley 
were covered with the early autumn snow, and a broad belt of frost- 
dyed leaves ran round their sides, bright with crimson and orange 
and gold, while the valley still lay in summer verdure beneath the 
sun, the bell from the old stone tower rang out a joyous peal, and 
the voice of the minister echoed through the dusky aisles, “ Whom 
God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.” 


The reader lays down his book and looks into the fire, and 
there is a moment’s silence ; and Jemima’s hand steals over to 
mine, its soft pressure being returned, and with interest. At last 


8o—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


a kindly-looking and middle-aged lady (several people had gradu- 
ally joined the circle during the reading) says, “ Do you not think 
that the reason given for their quarrel is altogether too slight a 
one ? People who love each other don’t quarrel on such grounds. 
She should have seen that what he said was for her own good.” 

” Perhaps she did,” replies a very pretty and rather coquettish 
girl — for the question had been addressed to the company in gen- 
eral — ” perhaps she did ; but perhaps also her conscience con- 
victed her of some flirtation with Mr. Smith, and therefore she 
resented the correction the more keenly.” 

Every one smiles, and a light, as if from something newly 
learned, breaks over the face of a young man sitting near her, 
and he leans over and speaks to her in an undertone, at which she 
colors indignantly and draws her chair slightly from him. 

“ But they were happily married at last,” says a thin lady in 
curls, evidently a spinster, with a just audible sigh. 

“Yes, they were married happily at last,” replies the reader — 
the magazine is on the table, and his thumbs are again on his knees 
— ” and a married life is the happiest for either man or woman.” 
But while he says it, the shadow of a sadness seems to creep over 
his face, and I notice that he is dressed in black. 

“Granted,” breaks in impetuously a voice from the dark out- 
side of the circle, “provided you know whom you are marrying 
before you marry, but if you don’t, then it is hell !” 

We all start and turn toward the speaker. He is a tall, thin 
man, whose long, black hair shades a pale, worn face, from which 
his eyes gleam with a smouldering fire. 

“Yes, it is hell,” he continues. “You will pardon me for 
using the word — perhaps I should have said sheol — ” and a half- 
smile breaks fitfully over his face— “but there is no middle place 
in married life — it is either heaven or hell. One heaven may not 
be as bright as another, and one hell may not be as full of anguish 
as another — that depends upon our several temperaments — but 
still it is either heaven or hell.” 

A confused murmur sweeps over the little audience, partly of 
approbation and partly of disapprobation, but the speaker goes on. 

“ How many marry an ideal, only to awake to find that which 
seemed gold and precious stones nothing but dross and paste — or 
worse. Let me repeat to you a legend-r-you will pardon me that 


Chap, X, 


THE BRIDE OF THE DEAD.—81 


it is in verse — to exemplify and perhaps vivify what I have said. 
It is the legend of 


The Bride of the Dead. 

“ Who is thy guest, Sir Roger, 

An’ 1 may make so bold ? ” 

“ My guest ? his name 
Is Airthishame — 

Sir Airthishame of Mold. 

“ He rode up in the gloaming 
With a missive from Lord Key, 
Which did commend 
His dearest friend 
To mine hospitality.” 

“ Why dresseth he in sable ? 

Faith, it doth grewsome seem ! 

All others wear 
Brave colors rare — 

His eyes how strange they gleam ! ” 

" It is his color, saith he, 

The color of his house. 

He danceth well 
With Isabel, 

And pleased is she — the mouse ! 

“ For women, sir — most women — 
Court e’er the latest guests : 

More apt are they 
Than earlier prey 
T’ obey their small behests. 

His eyes gleam strangely, said ye ? 

It is with love, ye mean ; 

Of Bel’s fair fame 
Sir Airthishame 
Hath heard ere now, I ween.” 


7 


82 — A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


What power of fascination 
Had those strange eyes o’er Bel? 
She felt their power, 

And every hour 
She asked, but could not tell. 

The days flew by swift winged — 
Bright morn and sun-dyed eve — 
And eve and morn 
Saw love new born. 

That round Bel’s heart did weave 

Bright fancies, glowing visions. 
Around that heart so strange : 

But who can tell 
What fancies dwell 
Within a heart’s wide range ? 

’Twas in the mystic gloaming, 

When the fields in shadows lie. 

The word was said — 

But nameless dread. 

As if a wind swept by 

And blew its breath so icy 
Upon her shrinking heai't, 

Filled heart and Brain — 

Yet they, now twain, 

Should one be, ne’er to part. 

’Twas this he whispered to her 
As her head lay on his breast, 

And love’s first kiss 
Unlocked her bliss — 

Her bliss, her love confessed. 

All dread the winds of passion 
Cleared from her heart’s bright sky ; 

“Oh, Airthishame, 

My life, my fame 
Are thine, both now and aye ! ” 

* * * * 


Chap. X. 


THE BRIDE OF THE DEAD.— 83 


’Tis near the hour of midnight — 
For he this boon had plead — 

The bridal train 
Sweep on a main 
With slow and solemn tread. 

Their footsteps echo weirdly 
Through the dim cathedral aisles. 
And shadows dread 
That lurk o’erhead 
Chase even sunniest smiles. 

They twain before the altar 
Kneel, and the robed priest 
Of them makes one, 

Whom God alone 
Can part. The words have ceased, 

When from the tower above them 
The bells toll forth the hour ; — 
And midnight reigns. 

When spirits’ chains 
Are loosed by the Nether Power. 

The sounds have come and faded,, 
When other sounds, and dread, 
Clang, roll and boom 
From many a tomb 
In the crypts beneath their tread.. 

All start in wild amazement ; 

But turned to stone they stand ; 

For over all 
A spell doth fall, 

That binds each tongue and hand. 

And lo ! beneath the altar 
A hidden stairway yawns. 

And pouring out 
In hideous rout 
Come troops of skeletons. 


S4—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


They cluster round the bridegroom 
And stretch forth bony hands, 

And hail their lord, 

Their mighty lord, 

The leader of their bands. 

And as all gaze upon him. 

The firm flesh fades away, 

And, naught but bone, 

He stands alone. 

And leers upon his prey. 

Within his arms he clasps her, 
Amid her shrieks and cries. 

And down that stair. 
Whence hell’s lights glare. 
He bears her from their eyes. 

And as, near mad, they listen — 
But none may move or cry — 

Her prayers and moans 
Are drowned in tones 
Of awful revelry. 

And thus the hours creep onward 
With doubly weighted wings. 

Till chanticleer, 

That bird of cheer. 

His matins loudly sings. 

And as his clear Laus Deo 
Soars to the brightening sky, 

From near and far 
Clang bolt and bar. 

Amid a dreadful cry. 

The door beneath the altar 
Swings to with thundrous boom. 
And all is still — 

The silence chill , 

And deadly of the tomb. 


Chap, X. 


THE BRIDE OF THE DEAD.— 85 


But ’tis for but an instant, 

For loosened is the spell 

Which voice and hands 
Had bound with bands 
Forged in the fires of hell. 

And moans and lamentations 
Ring through the ancient pile, 

And back are flung 
In many a tongue 
From nave and vaulted aisle. 

“ Thy keys, oh sexton, quickly, 

T’ unlock this cursed door ! ” 

With shaking hands 
The sexton stands 
And draws each bolt and bar. 

They hasten down the stairway 
’Mid a gloom so chill and dread, 

And their footsteps sound 
From the walls around 
And the arches damp o’erhead. 

“ Thy keys again, oh sexton, 

T’ unlock each mouldering tomb ! ’ ’ 
As said, ’tis done — 

But one by one 
They ope on lifeless gloom. 

With frantic steps Sir Roger 
Does haste from door to door ; 

Until they stand, 

A quaking band, 

Nor further may explore. 

For all around about them 
The walls loomed black and low. 

“ Is naught beyond ? ” 

Sir Roger moaned ; 

The sexton answered, “ No.” 


86— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


But as with hearts despairing 
They stood debating thus, 

The torchlight shone 
On the polished stone 
Of an old sarcophagus. 

What is ’t ? ” cried out Sir Roger, 
In tones so strange and wild ; 

“ Mayhap there lies, 

Hid from our eyes. 

Fair Isabel, my child ! 

They gathered all around it ; 

But the massive lid defied 

Their utmost strength. 
Till, crazed at length. 

Sir Roger madly cried, 

“ Out on your puny sinews ! ” 

And rushed full at the stone ; 

A mighty strain — 

And broke in twain 
It on the earth lay prone. 

“ Oh Isabel, my Isabel !” 

But out-sprang the crimson tide ; 
And with one cry 
Of agony. 

Upon her breast he died. 

With faces horror stricken, 

By the torches’ fitful glare 
They gazed upon 
That hollowed stone — 
At those so silent there. 

A white and bony skeleton ; 
And in his arms lay fair 
Dead Isabel, 

And o’er him fell 
The glory of her hair. 


Chap. X. 


THE BRIDE OF THE DEAD. -^87 


And — who can read the secret? 
Was it love for him, though dead ? 
Her arms around 
Him fast were wound, 

And on his breast her head. 

And with no heart to part them, 
Entombed they left them thus. 

And o’er them placed 
The lid defaced 
Of the old sarcophagus. 

And on it there was carven, 

In letters deep and wide, 

Naught but the name — 

“ Sir Airthishame, 

And Isabel, his bride.” 

And* once in every hundred years — 
So runs the ancient tale — 

Forth from the tomb 
Alive do come 
Sir Airthishame and Bel. 

The altar door flies open, 

And the ghostly robed priest 
Of them, now twain, 

Makes one again ; 

And when the words have ceased, 

From out the choir weird music 
Rolls through the ancient pile. 

And a ghostly throng 
In measured song 
Move down the vaulted aisle. 

But as the dawn shines greyly 
Through the storied windows old, 
In the sleep of the tomb 
They rest, till bells boom 
That a century round has rolled. 


88— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. X. 


And they sometimes hear, who listen, 

Near the spot where their love was told, 

The mournful wail 
Of Isabel 

As she haunts the ruins olch 

She mourns for her troth there plighted ; 

For her vanished girlhood’s dream ; 

For the death she found 
In wedlock's bond. 

Though at first all bright did seem. 

Are there none among the living. 

Who mourn their vanished dreams — 

Those dreams so bright 
That the darkest night 
Was lit by their radiant beams ? 

Are there none who, at the dawning 
Of wedded life, too late, 

Find out, with dread, 

That they love one dead ? 

God save from like evil fate ! ” 

The last line, spoken in a deep, low tone, full of inward pain, 
is finished ; and his voice, which had now risen, now sunk to 
almost a whisper, coloring to the life each figure in the swiftly 
moving panorama, ceases, and a dead silence succeeds. He 
moves away and is gone. One by one, and almost silently, good- 
nights are said. But as I kiss my wife a last good-night, no fear 
but that the Angel of Death may tarry in his coming for the other, 
after the one has been borne by him away, is carried into my 
dreams. 


CHAPTER XI. 

The Glen House, and an Essay. 

Mist and rain confront us in the morning, but we sally out and go 
through the old Tip-Top House, built in 1852, of rough stone, a 
story and a half, and now used as a lumber room, and which must 
have been most uncomfortable when used by “ human warious.” 
Within a few feet is the signal station, cosy and comfortable, as 
well it may be, and near it the observatory, from which only dri- 
ving mist is now to be observed. On a rock at the extreme summit 
is rudely carved, “ P. Brooks, 1823 and he has doubtless, after 
tumbling over the stones of life, been long since absorbed by the 
ocean of eternity. 

At 10.15, the cloud still resting dense around us, although the 
rain has stopped, and the oracle, to wit, the clerk, having announced 
that it wouldn’t probably clear that day, we hold a counsel of war, 
and determine that, notwithstanding it is Sunday, the strain upon 
our religious feelings will be much greater moping up here, waiting 
for a view more extended than some twenty feet, than in spending 
a portion of the day in reaching the Glen House where, I tell Aunt 
Eunice, services will probably be held in the afternoon. So the 
others take the stage, and Jemima and I start off on foot, although 
Aunt Hepzibah protests — she doesn’t know Jemima’s pedestrian 
powers as I do ; for, like most people who have done much moun- 
tain climbing, we never take a conveyance, where a view is to be 
had, if we can help it. 

A cold, wintry wind, thick with driving mist, sweeps from the 
northwest. But as we get a little lower down, and the great bulk 
of the mountain makes itself felt, the driving cloud is divided, and 
we, descending on the southeast side, see it sailing away on either 
hand ; while far below in the valleys, great scattered masses rise 
slowly from the depths, are caught by the upper winds, are twisted 
and turned and broken, and, like the spirits of the vanished night, 
torn from their dark, deep hollows, writhing, sail away toward the 
engulfing sea. 


go— A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XL 


Where arboreal vegetation begins, we notice little spruces 
growing bn the lee side of rocks and the roadside walls, their tops 
seldom daring to show above the shelter, or if daring, cut down as 
with a knife by the fierce winter winds. Just above the Glen House, 
thousands of feet above, and where a superb view of it and the 
valley in which it lies is to be had, there is, in the roadside wall, a 
piece of rock broken from the ledge, the grain and consequent 
shape of which is like the curved back of an easy-chair ; and 
seated in this rest of nature’s and man’s providing, we look down 
from the vast height on the Lilliputian life below — the toy house, 
the midget men and women, the tiny fences, the little fields, the 
smaller, greener meadows, and the seemingly meaningless activity 
of a far-away and insect life — while to the left a black chasm- 
valley yawns, a scene of utter desolation, where no life is, nor can 
exist, and the only moving things are wreaths of mist creeping 
slowly up its side toward a huge snowbank that lies, a memory of 
winter, in a northern cleft. 

Further down, we meet a stage whose four horses toil slowly 
up and shy at us to relieve the monotony of the pull ; pass the 
stage-house half way down, chained to the earth ; pass milestones, 
relieving fatigue by the shortening distance ; walk over a little 
level stretch which seems, by contrast, as if it were up hill. The 
shrubbery grows taller ; the forests appear ; we walk under their 
shade, and by deep, dark, fascinating glens ; meet another stage ; 
leave the forest and shadow, and come out upon a meadow and 
sunshine ; cross a little stream ; cross another meadow ; ascend a 
little rise, and at 12.25 walk, the dusty observed of clean observers, 
up the Glen House steps, having accomplished the eight miles in 
two hours and eight minutes ; whereupon I congratulate Jemima. 
* And, after dinner, as we sit on the piazza, and gaze at Madison, 
Adams, Jefferson and Washington, the cloud leaves that highest 
peak, the Summit House stands bathed in light, and, notwithstand- 
ing the day, we curse our fate and the hotel clerk and the deceitful 
morning cloud : but Aunt Hepzibah says it is a righteous judgment 
upon us all for having traveled on Sunday. 

Sure enough, notice is given that at four o’clock “ Even 
Song ’’will be held in the parlors, and to Even Song we go, 
although Aunt Eunice sighs for her Presbyterian service (as should 
I. if I sighed for any), and Aunt Hepzibah hopes that there won’t 


Chap. XL 


THE GLEN HOUSE.— gi 


be “any fiddle-faddle.” As for Uncle Robert, he evidently con- 
siders it a good opportunity to get an afternoon nap in quiet, for he 
immediately goes to sleep. The Professor is away bug-hunting. 

The officiating clergyman is a most beautiful curate, Reverend 
Field Flowers by name, whose sleek hair is parted in the middle, 
and whose voice is as soft as his looks. He takes for his text 
“ Broken Vessels,” and builds up of the pieces an appeal for sub- 
scriptions to a chapel to be erected at some (by me) unpronounce- 
able place (he has the latest Plindoostanee pronunciation however) 
in India, to the memory of a sainted cheild, who departed this life 
at the advanced age of six, after having besought the numerous 
company around her death-bed not to cry, but to gather sufficient 
of this world’s paltry pelf from the four quarters of the globe (she 
seems to have been particular about the four) to erect the said 
chapel, where other little girls could be sweetly converted, ^and 
taught how wrong it was to be burnt alive on the bodies of their 
deceased husbands. 

During the singing of a hymn, to a tune distorted from an 
early Gregorgian chant, by a volunteer choir, of which the tenor 
was the most noticeable, from his impetuosity of bray, the (dinner) 
plate was passed around — and the curate doubtless realized enough 
to pay for his week’s board. 

This was Jemima’s only comment : “ I wasn’t so much interested 
in his sermon, as I was in watching his cuffs jump up and down.” 

It is wonderful how prehensily active as to quarters the waiters 
are, and how necessary a judicious distribution of those handy 
pieces of silver is to the proper filling of the three-times-a-day 
recurring vacuum in the human frame. Also how the head waiter 
manages to keep his right arm firmly in its socket, considering the 
intensity with which he shoots it up to attract the attention of the 
incoming guest, in order to his proper seating. Also how many 
different types of people there are in a huge caravansary like this. 
There is one couple about whom Jemima would like to weave a 
romance — but it would be a rather unpleasant romance, I fear. 
She is intense : yellow hair ; large blue eyes ; deep circles under 
them; good profile; thin lips; square jaw; slender figure; thin 
arms ; long, slim, white, nervous hands ; body bent a little forward 
while walking ; goes straight ahead, looking neither to the right 
hand nor to the left, and when she lays her empty egg-shell in the 


g2—A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XL 


saucer suddenly" crushes it. He is fat, easy, and fifty, and follows 
her lead with smiling stolidity. How long will she be content to 
lead him ? How long before she will follow — to ruin, perhaps — 
some stronger will than her own ? 

Here is a man who, one day, helped himself to the greater 
part of a small piece of butter left in the dish before him ; when, 
seeing his neighbor, a stranger, about to take the small remainder, 
passed him his own butter-plate, notwithstanding his polite pro- 
testations, and took the remainder himself. 

There is an odd young man whom I met one evening in the 
smoking-room, and he thus pleasantly chatted about a neighbor of 
his at the table: “ She is a vinegary old, or rather middle-aged 
lady, and always wants the lights turned down at supper — says 
they hurt her eyes. I said one evening in her hearing — she never 
speaks to me by any chance — that I guessed I’d have to bring a 
dark lantern to eat by. She always brings a worsted shawl to 
table, not to use, but to get under my chair. It always does. 
When she has finished her meal, she rises and begins to pull. I 
don't notice. The lady opposite, smothering her laughter, says, 
* Mr. Henry, you’re on the lady’s shawl.’ I don’t hear, and lean 
over the table, thus leaning harder on the shawl, and say, ‘ What 
did you say ? ’ She repeats. I then say to my neighbor in the 
politest manner, ‘ Oh, I beg pardon,’ and raise the side of my chair 
that isn’t on the shawl, and go on eating. The old lady pulls 
again, looking daggers, but saying never a word. Then I look up 
by accident, and find her there, and beg pardon again, and raise 
my chair until the shawl is almost released, but catch it again just 
in time, and go on eating. Then she gets mad, and jerks the 
shawl, and leaves a little piece under my chair-leg, and stalks 
away, only one end of the shawl over her shoulder, the bulk of it 
dragging on the floor. And yet she hates me ! ” At the end of 
which narration the smoking-room was in a roar. 

We have had a ball, which is to say that the feminine portion 
of our community hung, prior thereto, on several varieties of ten- 
ter-hooks, the young and pretty lest they shouldn’t have beaux 
enough ; their mammas lest those beaux shouldn’t be matrimo- 
nially eligible, and the would-be young and pretty lest they shouldn’t 
have any beaux at all. 


Chap. XL 


THE GLEN HOUSE.— gs 


The eventful evening arrived. The ladies were out in full 
force, and were mostly adorned in costumes in the extreme of ball- 
room loveliness — ^that is to say, as little above the waist as possible, 
and as much below that dividing line as impossible. The men 
were likewise out in full force — all the force there was — which was 
as one to ten. We married men were comparatively safe — but oh 
the unmarried ! and particularly oh the two particularly eligible 
unmarried ! There were two — the one by reason of much money, 
and nothing else ; the other by reason of much (supposed) title, 
and less than nothing else. And how the fair Amazons did lay 
siege ! They charged in companies, in regiments, in platoons. 
They employed every battery of smile, of meaning glance, of 
meaningless flattery. They laid every snare of evident charm of 
person and supposed charm of mind. And if the besieged did not 
capitulate at once and promise to commit unheard-of bigamy, or 
did not tear from the? room stark, staring mad, it was because, on 
the one hand, they assumed these attentions to be, if anything less 
than, their rightful due, or, on the other, the whelm of flattery 
could not penetrate their pachydermatous minds. By reason of 
the above massing of forces, the few remaining unmarried men 
(and some married) were able to escape with but one companion 
apiece to the cool and confidential shades of the piazzas. The 
Professor and Aunt Eunice occupied one of them. As for Uncle 
Robert, he essayed to somewhat permanently occupy another, in 
company with a sweet maid of some eighteen summers (mascu^ 
linity of any color, race or previous condition of servitude was at 
a premium), when Aunt Hepzibah sailed by on the arm of a man 
who looked as if he had much rather not, saying as she passed, in 
a voice wherein the claws protruded visibly from the velvet, “Ah, 
Robert, you there ?” — and the wretched Robert, feeling said claws 
sink into his soul, gave up the ghost, and went and interred him- 
self, with his partner, in the parlor. 

As Jemima and I were retiring to our room, we observed the 
Professor putting out his shoes. As I was doing the like with mine, 
he put his head out of his door, and commenced fumbling with his. 
I inquired what was the matter; to which he replied that he had 
forgotten whether he had left them inside to inside, as it would be un- 
comfortable for them to stand otherwise than as they were worn. (!) 
Reporting which to Jemima she said, “ What a sympathetic man !” 


g4—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XI. 


We were just putting out our light, when there came a some- 
what timid knock at our door. Opening it, I discovered the Pro- 
fessor in a state of deshabille, and in his hand several sheets of 
manuscript, which he handed me, begging my pardon for troubling 
me, but saying he would like my wife’s and my opinion upon it 
in the morning, and that he was impelled to write it by witnessing 
“ the shameless undress of the ladies this evening,” and that he 
intended to publish it in a paper to which he was a contributor. I 
took it with thanks, and Jemima read it aloud while I lay smoking 
— and here it is, verbatim et literatim. 

What is Modesty ? 

A short discourse upon some of the social usages of the day. 

“What is truth ? said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an 
answer,” quaintly exclaims Bacon. I would ask, “What is 
Modesty ?” and I fain would wait for a reply; but I fear that none 
will or can be forthcoming, except, “We can not tell ; for there is no 
such thing as real, inherent modesty.” This seems a hard answer, 
and, says my fair reader, one utterly untrue- Perhaps so, oh maiden, 
but are you sure that many or some things that you do and count 
modest, are counted modest by your sister of another country, or 
another mode of life, or another social standing ? What you count 
modest at one time and place, do not even you yourself count im- 
modest at another ? You would not care to wear the same (or rather 
as little) dress as your African or Patagonian sisters, and yet I doubt 
not that they consider themselves perfectly modest. You — I am 
speaking to the “ society girl ” of the day — you might not consider 
it proper to wander off with your swain, in perfect freedom from 
all chaperonage, amid the solitudes of fields and woody dells, nor 
to play “ Copenhagen ” and other kissing and embracing games, 
as does your country sister with absence of all thought of impro- 
priety. And yet take her with you to the ball-room and seashore 
for the first time, and observe the blush on her cheek and her 
averted*eyes, while upon your cheek is, naturally enough, no 
blush — else would you blush for yourself — and you watch with 
interest the dancers and bathers, and later on are one of them. 
And yet both you and she are honestly modest, each in your own 
way. 


Chap. XL 


DISCOURSE ON MODESTY.— 


And further, gently-bred maiden, will you do at one time and 
place what you will at another ? Let us see. You are going to a 
ball, and dressing time arrives. You repair to your room and doff 
your dress, when just then your mother calls from her room adjoin- 
ing, and you open your door and are passing to hers, when your 
brother’s friend, who is stopping over night for the ball, steps from 
his room opposite, and meets you face to face. You scream, rush 
back into your room and slam the door, while he as hurriedly 
retreats into his. An hour later, having in the meantime donned 
a dress which exposes much more of your person than was visible 
to Mr. Smith when you met him at your door, you sail into the 
ball-room on his arm, listening to his humble apologies for the 
' contrete7nps of the hall, and become, if you are well formed — as I 
am presuming you ta be — the cynosure of all eyes masculine, 
including Mr. Smith’s. Now which was the more innately and 
really modest costume of the two — your undress or your dress ? 

The ball is over, and you, in your robe de nuit, are passing from 
your sister’s room to yours, after chatting over the various events of 
the evening. Mr. Smith, coming up stairs from the smoking-room, 
again meets you face to face. This time you are really angry and 
outraged — and purposely do not descend the next morning in time 
to bid him good-bye. And yet your night-dress e7tiirely covered 
your person, and was, in the abstract, an attractive gown. 

The following summer you are at Cape May ; and your pretty 
bathing skirt, reaching to your knees, and your stockings to match 
— to wit, your bathing-dress — form the basis of compliments from 
Mr. Smith and other of your friends whom you meet as you walk 
into the water, and with whom you bathe. In the afternoon, 
sitting upon the piazza chatting, a truant gust of wind comes 
playfully along, and lifts, for only two or three inches, your filmy 
skirt, exposing the shapely ankle underneath. Mr. Smith — not 
quite ready enough at self-sacrifice — gazes for an instant at the 
small portion of Nature’s handiwork, and, before he can gallantly 
look away, }^ou catch him at it and, in your mind, set him down 
as lacking in gentlemanly instincts, and proceed to quietly freeze 
him. And yet where Mr. Smith unwittingly saw an inch, you had 
deliberately exposed to his eyes the greater portion of an ell. 

Now to suppose an extreme, the mere mention of which I fear 
you will not pardon. Suppose Mr. Smith had asked you some 


q6—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XL 


evening in your parlor, your mother or your sister being of course 
present, to unbutton three or four buttons at your throat, and. show 
him a few square inches of the creaminess you had so liberally 
exposed at the ball. Would you or yours have ever spoken to him 
again ? Or — a more dreadful supposition — suppose he had asked 
you to lift an inch or two of your dress, and allow him. to gaze for 
an instant at the shapely ankle at which, with its attendant leg, he 
had, unrebuked, fearlessly looked for an hour upon the shore the 
previous summer. Would you not have called in the men of your 
house, and would not Mr. Smith have flown, hatless and overcoat- 
less, from the hurriedly opened door ? 

And yet which was the worse — the deliberate exposure of much, 
or the request for a modest look at a little ? I know you will cry 
tome Honi soit qut mal y pense !" referring to the much — and 
shall I not cry to you the same, referring to the little ? When 
Edward picked up the garter, I wonder whether he had an evil 
thought to cloak by condemning it in the others ? Perhaps so — let 
us hope not. Sometimes wolves cry “wolf,” to tempt away the 
trusty dog. 

Now I am not a prude, yet I would ask for consistency which, 
like most jewels, is hard to find. If modest in some things, why 
not modest in all ? (God preserve us from the converse, how- 
ever!) Why should a girl whom we think and like to believe 
sincerely modest,’expose herself so, that even the men who feast 
their eyes on her charms exclaim, if they respect her, while chat- 
ting over the after-ball or after-bath cigar, “ What a pity ! How 
can she do it !” Do you know, lady mine, that there is more real 
modesty among men than among women ? You may not believe 
it, but I do. In conclusion, let us write, if not upon our door- 
posts, then upon our hearts ; Consistency ^ thou art a jewel I 
\ 

“Whew!” ejaculated I, (circumspectly). 

“ Ridiculous ! Shameful !” said Jemima. “ The man must be 
a brute !” 

“Of course, my dear,” I replied, “but ” 

******** 

The next morning, as I handed the MS. to the Professor, I 
remarked that my wife did not approve of it. 

She froze him for two whole days. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Various Items of Interest. 

How sweet these days of utter idleness, when onenvanders with 
the companion whose presence is ever a rest and recreation, from 
one charm of Nature’s handiwork to another — from dark ravine 
to breezy mountain top ; through shaded, mossy woods, where 
feathery fronds of ferns hide with their graceful greenery the 
broken rocks beneath ; along the winding roads, where shade 
gives place to sun and sun to shade, and every turn frames in the 
arching trees some pretty picture of a wood or stream, or spreads a 
mighty canvas of green hills and distant, jagged peaks and tremu- 
lous, summer haze and lightly sailing clouds. 

And so we wander ; and pur souls now rise to God in praise 
of His great works, or drop to earth to note His lesser deeds : see 
how each blade is perfect in its form ; how rare the blushes of the 
sweet wild-rose; how every bird is joyful with its mate, and how 
their young are nested on the boughs. But this we also learn, 
Jemima says, that when we smile, all Nature’ seems to smile in 
sympathy, but when we sorrow, she is but a pitiless tyrant, 
unmindful of our grief. And as we lie on a little, grassy, tree- 
crowned knoll, she repeats : ' 

Nature Reflects Our Moods. 

• Our. spirits laugh — and sunny lands are blithe 

With winsome smiles that dimple from the leaves ; 

With joyous notes of birds ; with insect lives 
That play with glad gyrations on the air ; 

With skies that shine with loving radiance ; 

With sparkles from the rock; with incense sweet, 

' Swung from the glowing censers of the flovi'ers ; 

With that quick, subtile sympathy between 
Our inward light and Earth’s reflected glow — 

This when we laugh. 


8 


pS—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XII. 


Our spirits laugh — and storms but nerve our thews 
To gay encounter with their rushing winds, 

Their driven drops, or whirling flakes of snow : 

But gift our eyes to note the majesty 
Of grey cloud piled on cloud of darker hue ; 

Of lightning’s wrath ; of crashing, bolt-felled tree ; 

Of rolling war-drum of the elements — 

And this too when we laugh. 

But when we weep, how Nature, mocking, smiles ! 

How cruel- careless all the joyous life 

That laughs and sports while we look aching on — 

Each laugh a poniard in our bleeding hearts ; 

Each sport of purpose to augment our woe ! 

This when we weep. 

And when we weep, the pitiless storm but beats 
Upon a wretch already beaten down : 

The lightning flashes and the thunder rolls 
To fright one cowering from his inward dread ; 

And black storm-cloud is not more dark than that 
Which sweeps, a horror, o’er our anguished souls. 

And this too when we weep. 

Wherefore, oh Brother, though thou art 
Of Nature the most noble part. 

Know that her wheels relentlessly 
Roll on, nor swerve nor stop for thee ! 

Her varied face is but a glass 
Wherein thy soul may view, as pass, 

Its lights of joy, its shades of woe — 

And while thou liv’st Twill e’er be so ! 

But though a shade dims every light — 

Though day is swallowed up in night — 

Peer through the shades for coming light ! 

Remember, day succeeds the night ! 

“ Is it not so, John ? ” she said. 

“ Yes, dear,” I replied, “ it is. We are but a part of nature ; 
and, as a part, that unanswerable question, why was creation 
created ? applies to us. Why were we created ? Theologians say. 


Chap, XII. 


VARIOUS ITEMS OF INTEREST— gg 


‘ for the glory of God.’ As fully one-half of the race is, by the 
creed of those same theologians, damned, surely their damnation — 
their eternal torment — can not redound to the glory of a merciful 
God. And if He — having the power to call that out of chaos which 
becomes a sentient, never-dying soul — had chosen to change 
that something into an immediately-glorified being, enjoying 
happiness to all eternity, instead of clothing it with suffering flesh, 
and dooming it to the possibility, probability, certainty almost, of 
enduring the extreme of anguish, how much better had been our 
lot ! All nature is but one vast battle-field — one life saved at the 
expense of another, perhaps many, lost; which life itself, if not 
the stronger, had perished to benefit some life, now extinct that it 
may live. It is always ‘the survival of the fittest,’ that is, the 
strongest — the one best able to endure the onslaught of its fellows, 
of its rivals, of the world, of the very atmosphere that surrounds 
the world. The soil is formed by the disintegration — death — of 
the rocks r the grasses draw their sustenance from the thereby 
impoverished soil : the trees from the soil enriched by the decaying 
bodies of the dead grasses : the herbivorous and graminivorous 
animals from the killed grasses and herbs : the carnivorous from 
the killed graminivorous and herbivorous : man, the most destruc- 
tive, from the death of all ; and he not only slays that he may eat 
and live, but slays that he may survive and live — grass and herb 
and animal and his fellow-man all fall before the him who is the 
strongest, and, triumphant, he survives, and is, or believes himself 
to be, happy. And yet what is happiness ? Is it not but the 
cessation for the moment of misery ? ” 

“Oh no, John dear,” she exclaimed in a frightened tone. 
“ Surely happiness is not the mere cessation of misery. Am I not 
- sometimes really happy ? — always with you.” 

“ You pet !” I cried, kissing her, “ and as near to happiness as 
I ever come, or shall come in this life, is by your side. But, 
darling, reflect. Is happiness ever wholly unalloyed? Are we 
not almost always haunted by some regret, some care, some want 
unsatisfied ? And when we are not — or are proximately not — we 
say we are happy. Therefore is there any such thing as happiness 
per se — a thing by itself — one might say, an entity ? Is it not the 
proximate, never absolute — would that it were, but never abso- 
lute, absence of misery — misery of greater or less degree, but 


loo—A BACHELOR'S UCCDD/NG TRIP. 


Chap. XII. 


always misery ? For all unhappiness is but misery, slight and easily 
borne — we are so used to it — or intensified and hardly borne. 
Therefore who can answer, Why was creation created? Why 
were we created ? No one. Sufficient that we are. Let us make 
the best of it ; let us peer through the shades for coming light, 
remembering, day succeeds the night. And as we believe — oh pity 
them that do not, for they are of all men most miserable, having 
so little in this life to live for, and nothing beyond the grave — as 
we believe in a life to come ; in a world beyond, above, surpassing 
this of ours, wherein the fleeting shadow that we seek below, will 
live and reign personified, and we her subjects, catching of her 
glow, shall hug it to our breasts, till every heart shall beam, 
reflecting hers, and we shall be — not merely live — shall be a very 
part of Happiness ; so let us live this life, that we shall gain that 
life to come. And not merely live as to exist, but live — use every 
muscle of our minds, every nerve of our souls— eve7y upward 
earthly step of mind or soul shall land us on a higher plane beyond 
this world. What says the poet of 

The Learned Dead. 

The life is gone : the moveless eyeballs stare 
Upon a world unseen — the world we know, 

But gaze upon a world beyond our ken, 

A world known only to the dead and God. 

Whence has the knowledge fled that once was his ? 

Obedient unto mandatory will, 

Is its strong service dead, is that will dead, 

Shall all his learning rot with that dead brain ? 

Or shall he yet, in some far higher sphere. 

Call from a mind that, old but now, is young, 

His store of knowledge, ever waxing more, 

To charm and guide the other dwellers there ? 

And do not they who, in this primal school. 

Have toiled to gain the only gold death spares, 

Win greener laurels in that higher sphere. 

And win more quickly from their earthly toil ?’’ 

- “John,” cried she, “we will toil for that gold — the only gold 
death spares— that we may buy a higher place in that land. And 


Chap. XII. 


VARIOUS ITEMS OF INTEREST.— loi 


we will give that gold, so far as we may, to our children, that they 
may likewise win a higher place.” 

“My love, are you glad that you are alive ?” 

“Why certainly, dear,” she said, looking her surprise at the 
question. 

“ Have you ever suffered ?” 

“ Sometimes.” 

“ If you had not been alive, you would not have suffered.” 
“Why of course not, John,” smiling in spite of herself. 

“ That is exactly it,” I cried. “ If you had not been alive you 
would not have suffered, and many have suffered much more than 
you, even to the extremity of suffering. And no happiness that 
the fact of being alive ever brought them, has been able to com- 
pensate them for that suffering. Do you remember Job’s moan in 
his anguish ? 

Let the day perish wherein I was born, 

And the night which said. There is a man-child conceived. 

Let that day be darkness ; 

Let not God regard it from above, 

Neither let the light shine upon it. 

Let darkness and the shadow of death claim it for their own; 

Let a cloud dwell upon it ; 

Let all that maketh black the day terrify it. 

As for that night, let thick darkness seize upon it ; 

Let it look for light, but have none ; 

Neither let it behold the eyelids of the morning : 

Because it shut not up the doors of my mother’s womb, 

Nor hid trouble from mine eyes. 

Why died I not from the womb ? 

Now you speak of our children. Is it right to bnng a soul into the 
world who may possibly echo Job' s moan ? 

She looked at me with an amazement that gradually blanched 

into despair. 

“ Oh John— my husband— you can not mean what you say ! 
What, wrong to bring a baby, my very own, into the world ? To 
be with me, to be a part of me, to love, to cherish, to caress— my 
own, my own little ba — ” and she flung herself on my knees in a 
passion of tears. 


102— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XII. 


“ My darling, my wife, my own dear love,” I cried, clasping 
her in my arms, “ it shall be with you as with all loving wives — 
your baby shall crow and laugh in your arms, and its tiny form 
shall be enfolded— jealously enfolded — in your love. But re77ie7nber 
that 710 love, 7io devotio7i 07t the part of a pare7it toward his or her 
child, caTi possibly atone for the mjury of birth. Therefore give to 
your child such love and loving guidance, and so train up and 
develop his every attribute of mind and body for his highest, 
noblest good and greatest service, that he, knowing that in the 
universal course of nature he was born, will not reproach you for 
the gift of life, but will thank you that the evils of that involuntary 
gift have been so mitigated by your love and foresight. And per- 
chance, when you wait for him on that farther shore, your mother’s 
heart may swell with loving pride to see him welcomed, as of kin, 
by the high and holy intelligences of that land.” 

And so smiles soon shone through tears. When, lifting her 
lovely eyes, glistening as with the shining drops left by a passing 
shower, she said, with smiling show of petulance, ” One would 
think, to hear you talk, that you were a real old misanthrope, while 
I — ” and the light in her eyes was not of smiles, but of love — “ I 
know how light-hearted and happy you are, and how you always 
seem to try to make the best of everything.” 

“ Thank you for the compliment,” I replied gaily, “ but that 
does not prevent me from moralizing. If a man is cast upon an 
uninhabited island, it is a poor way to spend his time to sit down 
and repine — and starve. It is much better to make himself as 
comfortable as circumstances will permit, so as to be in good 
health when he is rescued. If, thinking as I do, and knowing that 
I am alive and can’t help it, I did not try to make the best of 
everything, I should either go mad, or kill myself.” 

“ But you won’t ! ?” anxiously. 

“ Hear me swear it — I won’t !” and in a gale of laughter we 
walked on up the hill. (How swift the transition, in our human 
minds, from sun to shadow, and again to sun ! And how happy 
that it is !) And as we walked, Jemima sang. 

Oh ye cares that infest the day, 

Go fold your tents like the Arabs, 

And benignantly keep away ! 


Chap. XII. 


WARNING.— 103 


" What is that ?” she cried, as a turn in the path disclosed a 
blanched, dead tree, to which was fastened a paper, bearing the 
word, in large letters. Warning ! 

We went up to it and read : 

Warning ! 

We walked atop the hill, 

She and I, 

And every little thrill 
From her eye, 

As it swept the wide expanse 
With a comprehensive glance, 

And then looked at me askance. 

Drove me nigh 

To distraction, as we Avalked, 

She and I ; 

To proposal, as we talked 
Of the sky, 

Of the rocky mountain tops. 

Of champagne and how it pops. 

Of what partners at the hops 
We decry. 

As my earnest gaze met hers 
She, not 1, 

Blushed, and stooping, gathered furze 
Growing by ; 

And it seemed to me her glance 
^ Sought no more the wide expanse. 

But with loving look, askance, 

Called me nigh. 

As I clasped her bending form, 

She, not I, 

Rose with quick and withering scorn — 

And I sigh 

When I think how soon I learned 
That my love was not returned — 

That an ignis-fatuus burned 
In her eye. 


104 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XII 


We both laughed. " I suppose he wished he was dead,” said 
Jemima. 

“ I presume he did,” I replied. “ Poor fellow ; another illusion 
gone ! I wonder whether his charitable purpose will be 'carried 
out, and some other fellow, about to rush to his fate, be warned in 
time. This looks like a place where such warnings might be 
necessary.” 

“Of course he won’t,” she said; “men never are ! They 
think that a girl is fairly dying for them, just because she happens 
to look at them. They are so stupid !” 

“Yes, I know,” I answered abstractedly, “they are stupid. 
Never take any hints ” 

“What?!” 

“ To keep away, of course I mean. Now I was one of them. 
Never could see any hint to keep away ; never ” 

The result of this speech I will not harrow the reader’s soul by 
relating. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

To Montreal. 

A COUNCIL of war has decided that our time in barracks, so to 
speak, is over, and that we must again set out on the march. 
Therefore the tents are struck by Bolus and Victorine — and what 
harmony is theirs ! — the Generalissimoess cries Forward ! and the 
.march is begun. The body of the army goes by heavy train- 
wagon, while Jemima and I, being of the lighter grade, are thrown 
out as skirmishers, and depart in advance in a two-seated “buck- 
board” for Gorham. 

For the benefit of the unhappy who have never ridden in a 
buck-board, let me say that if between its shafts you harness 
a good, strong horse, and put upon the plank upon which your 
seat rests enough weight besides your own (either human or other- 
wise) to ballast the conveyance properly, you can ride over more 
stumps and rocks and “corduroy” road in a given space and 
time, easily and jauntily, than in any other vehicle known, if not 
to man, at least to me. 

Our driver, easily attired in flannel shirt and corduroy 
breeches, the latter comfortably stuck into a pair of boots whose 
palmy, blackened days had faded into those sere and yellow, 
occupies the intervals between the chewings of his tobacco-cud 
and the fleckings at his horse with his long-lashed whip, in 
discourse, with a view to the hospitable entertainment of the 
stranger. During which he informs us that Mount Washington is 
owned by “the Pingry heirs and a Mr. Coe, of Bangor,” and that 
the Summit House pays the owners $ 12,000 and the railway $ 2,000 
a year rental for the privilege of being where they are. That he 
thinks that the mountain would -hardly pay to be laid out in 
building-lots, but that he had heard that the owners had offered to 
trade it for a city somewhere — yes, a whole city — but where he 
couldn’t say. That he had heard, too, that the owners of a big 
mountain over in Europe — yes. Mount Blank sounded like it — ^had 


io6—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XIII. 


offered to trade it for Mount Washington, with a good deal to 
boot, but that old Pingry’s estate warn’t quite settled, and they 
couldn’t pay the difference. That the last of June or the middle 
of September is the best time for clear weather on the top. That 
old Hayes found some springs up there on Hayes’ Mountain and 
built a house there, but that it didn’t pay very big, and blew down 
about three years ago. That it makes him larf etarnally to see 
city fellers get themselves all tangled up in their fixin’s, tryin’ to 
catch traout daown there in Peabody, when there hadn’t been any 
traout there for years ’n ’ more. And so on, as we follow the 
windings of the brawling Peabody, jolting (the wheels, not we) 
over stones, and tipping (the wheels and we) over stumps, rolling 
out of patches of grateful shade and into stretches of graceless 
heat ; watching the towering ranges on either side of the broaden- 
ing little valley, with their varied tops and still more varied 
names — Carter, Imp, Moriah, and so on and so on — till the 
railway comes in sight, and with the railway, Gorham, and with 
Gorham, the station,' and with the station, the Alpine House, and 
we step out, and turn our ride into money, and the buck-board 
and mountain life sway away, and the railway remains. 

From the window of the sleeper, on the 6 p. m. train for 
Montreal — distance 206 miles, schedule time 12 hours and 15 
minutes ! — we watch the beautiful New Hampshire scenery — beau- 
tiful from a romantic, but not from an utilitarian point of view. For, 
while mountain peaks, invading the sky, are grand in the travelers’ 
eyes ; and rocks, jagged and grey, are picturesque ; and in swampy 
vistas, among the straight, solemn stems of the cypress and down 
by the twisted roots and over the black, glassy pools, fancies sport 
and goblins lurk and shapes of the nether world come and go ; 
yet all these, to the farmer, may not be inspiring, as he breaks 
his plowshare among the rocks, and slips on the slimy roots, and 
regards with a sorrowful eye the scanty ears of corn and the 
scattered growth of wheat, like the infrequent hairs upon a sterile 
pate ; and he may sigh for less scenery and more mold. 

As the night came down, the clouds closed above us, dark 
and heavy, and soon the rain was beating against the black panes 
— squares of darkness in the sides of the car. And as they struck, 
they formed strings of pale-white pearls, ever slipping and slip- 
ping and moving down in endless succession. And as Jemima 


Chap. Kill. 


TO MONTREAL.— 70/ 


lay on my shoulder she said ; “ When you watch the rain drops, 
dear, and see how they seem to cling to their support until they 
become too heavy, and then drop off; and almost before you have 
seen the last of one, another has taken its place, did you ever 
think how like we are to the rain drops — we cling to this life until 
the burden becomes too heavy, and then we lay it down ; but 
some other steps into our place, and we are hardly missed ?” 

We cross the New Hampshire line and the bridge at North 
Stratford at the same moment ; run (or crawl) across Vermont, and 
reach Island Pond at eight. As the Canadian line is but sixteen 
miles further on, the custom-house officers are in force as to num- 
bers, but not as to activity ; for while we take a leisurely supper at 
the adjacent hotel, and sit on the piazza watching the moon rise 
over the mountains, they take a leisurely look at the few trunks 
and valises, and probably go to bed, as possibly do also our 
conductor and engineer, for a short nap, for not before 10.30 do we 
slowly move out of the station — 10.30 being schedule time ! The 
Grand Trunk is an excellent road for the traveler going to be 
han'ged, but not for the traveler more anxious to reach his destina- 
tion; and the smoke would help the first-mentioned traveler to 
realize his probable further staying-place. 

The sunrise redly breaks upon a dead level country, dead 
level as far as the sight (why eye ?) can reach, and upon the bright, 
unpainted, tinned spires and roofs of scattered churches, over 
which the cross gleams, making one believe oneself in France 
again. Shines upon land but little farmed, and mostly given up 
to young and growing, and old, burnt and dead pines. Illumes 
with a fleeting touch of color, wretched little hamlets of wretched 
little huts clustered about fine stone churches and large rectories. 
Peeps through the broken, shiftless fences, whose two slight posts, 
wattled or pegged together, uphold the scrawny lengths of rails, 
and over the slender gates, like sections of bannister from a stair- 
way, and makes of the telegraph wires long black lines, which 
appear, as we fly along, to be continually trying to rise skyward, 
and as continually knocked down by the impassive poles. 

As the morning wears on, market gardens begin to appear, 
and with them barbed wire fences, and with them more and better 
houses, and with them civilization. The Southeastern Railroad 
track runs up and spins along beside us, and, away to the north 


io8— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XIII. 


across the great St. Lawrence, Montreal, around and upon her 
Mont Real, lies, dim and misty in the summer haze, the shipping 
making a little grove between her feet and the shining water ; the 
spires and houses creeping up toward the wooded, flattened sum- 
mit of her mountain, which rises, alone, above the level land and 
river shore, while the long Victoria bridge stretches upon its many 
piers from the city toward us and the southern shore — an arm 
stretched out toward the vim and power of Yankee-land. 

The view is blotted out by the portal of the bridge, and 
through its hollow, iron length we roar ; come out and cross the 
wide canal ; pass by an old stone house with beds of flowers and 
shaded doorway seats, seeming a relic from ante-railway times ; 
are landed at a dirty and dingy station (behind time, of course); 
get ourselves and traps into very American hacks, and are jolted 
away to the Windsor Hotel, one of the finest on the continent. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Montreal, and a few of its Peculiarities. 

Jacques Cartier, that intrepid mariner of a by-gone day, having 
been commissioned by the then King of France, Francis L, to 
explore and, if possible, extend the French fishing-grounds, sailed 
through the fog and over the choppy seas of the Grand Banks', and 
discovered-the new-found land, Newfoundland. Not content, he, 
in 1534, sailed further west, and discovered the mainland of 
Canada, (so called from the Indian word “ Kanata,” a village, or 
collection of huts or wigwams). Again uncontented (what would 
the world be if everybody had been contented?) in 1535 he 
sailed still further west, passing the heights upon which, in later 
days, Quebec was to rest and Montcalm to die, sailing up the 
great St. Lawrence, and reaching, at the confluence of it and its 
rival the Ottawa, an Indian village, Hochelaga, whose pointed 
tents, with their ascending wreaths of smoke, nestled among the 
trees upon the southern shore of a triangular island surrounded 
by the waters of the two great streams. Above the village rose 
a hill, the only one of any size along that shore, and it he named 
Mont Real. 

But the climate (and perhaps the Indians) and Cartier and 
his Frenchmen could not agree, and he soon sailed away home- 
ward, and for a hundred years or so Hochelaga saw not the white 
men, except as they came to barter for skins. In 1642, however, 
the Indians having been pretty much civilized (literally) to death, 
and the village having become a trading-post of some importance, 
a town was founded upon its site and called La Ville de Marie. 
But the name of its mountain clung to the infant town, and at la^t 
La Ville de Marie disappeared, and Mont Real — Montreal — 
reigned in its stead. 

Come with Jemima and me to the top of the mountain and 
the pretty park thereupon, and behold the view. To the north, 
the Sault au Recollet, an arm from the Ottawa, separates our 
island from the Isle de Jesu, which itself is cut off from the main- 
land by another encircling arm. The glint of these river-arms 


no— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XIV. 


shines among the trees and between the meadows and farms, 
which last stretch away, level and green, to the forests on the 
horizon line. To the west, the broad Ottawa flows through its 
Lac des deux Montagnes, while, farther south, the St. Lawrence 
spreads out, brilliant and lazy in the sun, into the Lac St. Louis ; 
gathers force as it contracts its flood ; roars savagely down the 
Lachine Rapids; broadens smilingly as it passes the town, and 
flows, quiet and grand, to the east and the sea. 

At our feet, and to the south, the city descends the steep 
slopes, and spreads away level to the attenuated little grove of 
masts that fringes the water’s edge, its spires and domes seeming 
like arms upraised to the God beyond the deep-blue sky, while 
the bright tinned roofs flash smiles back at the sun. Beyond, the 
broad bosom of the river gleams in white light, spanned by the 
long line of the Victoria bridge, whose black length and huge piers 
are reproduced in the water’s mirror underneath, and beyond the 
other shore, the level farms stretch away, broken here and there 
by copses and little hills, to the Beloeil Mountains and the still 
more distant mountains in “the States,” which melt into the sky. 

We leave the park in which we have been standing, and, 
passing the restaurant, where animated parties and couples are 
partaking of refreshments, solid and otherwise, among whom sit 
several fat and jolly priests wearing three-cornered hats and long, 
black coats like petticoats, jump into our hack, and zigzag down 
the mountain’s side. 

What a queer town this is! Stolid English grafted on 
vivacious French, the whole leavened by Yankee proximity. 
Quitting our hack, we wander away by the by-ways and high- ways, 
through streets straight and crooked, and bearing, almost every 
one, French names, and representing all the saints in the calendar. 
All around us is heard the jabber of French tongues; and in the 
business portions the carters’ cries and oaths, likewise in French, 
create an almost American stir and bustle. For, except that the 
city is somewhat Frenchy, and in some parts old and Old World 
looking, and adopts some of the universal French-Canadian 
customs and peculiarities, it is very like an American city, and 
therefore somewhat depressingly familiar. 

But these few exceptions vary the dull flat of use, and remind 
us that we are in “furrin’ parts.” For instance : All the steeples 


* 


Chap. XIV. 


MONTREAL.— iir 


are covered with bright (when it isn’t rusty), unpainted tin, which 
glistens and glows in the sunlight, and looks, afar off, like a 
beacon ; and almost all the churches and houses are roofed in like 
manner, the joints of the tin roofing being laid on, as to the roof, 
“ slantindicularly ” — neither horizontal nor perpendicular — pre- 
sumably that they may have a downward angle, that the rain may 
run off the more easily. The houses are all built of a greyish 
limestone, in which may sometimes be detected the fossil shells of 
minute shell-fish, of whose infinite and infinitesimal lives and 
deaths "the stone is a monument. And all the houses have, in the 
winter, double window-sashes, the outer immovable, the fresh air 
(and a very little evidently goes a long way) being let in by a 
long slit or opening in the lower part of the woodwork, which slit 
is closed with a little slide or door ; and the numbers of all the 
I houses are painted in black on oval pieces of white porcelain. 

I And every public notice is printed in both French and English. 

I Almost all the store doors have upon them the hugest and 
I most wonderful fastenings ever produced — a massive brass thumb- 
I latch and handle high up, and a massive iron latch, dropping into 
a massive iron catch, low down, connected with the thumb-latch 
above by a chain or hinged rod, also massive. The people burn 
a great deal of wood and very little coal, and the stoves are fear- 
fully and wonderfully made, being mostly all stovepipe and drum, 

; built in fantastic and castellated shapes. 

In the streets, and especially in those leading from the 
country, fat little ponies race around, harnessed to funny little 
two-wheeled carts, like miniature English dogcarts, in which, 
protected from the public, and from tumbling out, by a railing 
like a little picket-fence, as if every man had brought his front 
door-yard away with him on wheels, the likewise fat man and his 
fefmne are joltily seated, smiling from the dooryard on the 
passers-by. And if the horses only went a little faster, and the 
driver had a long-lashed whip which he cracked from right to left, 
crying “ He ! he !,” we would imagine ourselves in Marseilles 
again. To heighten this imagination comes a postman, very like 
2i. gendarme, dressed in blue trimmed with red, and buried under 
a huge white canvas helmet, as if he were wandering in the wilds 
and heats of India, hunting tigers. And the number of these 
helmets worn is truly surprising, the newly-arrived Englishman 


JI2—A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XIV. 


especially looming up in one, as if he were a species of exceedingly 
long-legged turtle carrying his own comparatively diminutive 
shell. 

But the funniest thing of all is the Canadian adaptation of 
the American bell-punch system. Methought, when we jumped 
aboard a car, Now we are out of the land where 

“ The conductor, when he receives a fare, 

Must punch in the presence of the passenjaire 
A buff trip-slip for a six-cent fare, 

A blue trip slip for a three-cent fare, 

All in the presence of the passenjaire.” 

But no. Tyrannical Monopoly still reigns. The conductor — 
a very little, pale man — appeared in front of us with a huge tin 
box, having a glass front in it, hanging by a strap to his neck (as 
if he were fairly harnessed to incorruptible honesty), which he 
grasped by a handle, and thrust under our noses for the fare, 
which we dropped through the hole in the top, and had the satis- 
faction of seeing .reposing among its brethren at the bottom of 
its jangling sarcophagus. 

Beside the Cathedral of Notre Dame is the old seminary, or 
priests’ house, separated from the street by an old blackened 
stone wall, and over the curiously carved gateway there is an 
ancient clock, beneath which is inscribed, “ Temps Moyens ; 
and from many a soul whose eyes, through the passing years, 
have looked upon the moving hands and immovable words. Time 
has indeed fled away, to leave it with ever-present Eternity. 

Near the river stands the old church of Bonsecour, within 
which are columns whose capitals are curiously carved and painted 
and gilded; and over the altar is a huge erection (I am not 
sufficiently Apostolic to know the name) consisting of four 
enormous beams, curved like the line of beauty, and reaching 
from the four corners of the chancel up to a central point above 
the altar, where they blossom out in a crown, the whole being gilt 
from top to bottom. 

Hidden away in a crooked, narrow back street, also down by 
the river, and surrounded by warehouses and wharves, is the little 
old French church of Notre Dame de la Garde, built during the 
close of the seventeenth century, and said to be the most venerable 


Chap. XIV 


MONTREAL.— 113 


of all. Its low sharp roof and little pointed spire, surmounted by 
a curious old weather-cock, are both covered with small plates of 
tin, once bright, but now sadly stained and rusted. And in the 
weather-worn stone front, over the main door, is carved an 
inscription in quaint old French which, translated, runs thus : “ Let 
the passer-by, whose heart bows to the love of the good God, enter 
here, and resting awhile, kneeling, repeat an Ave Maria.” 

In the Court, into which we look for a moment, the lawyers’ 
seats, consisting of little cloth-covered desks with immovable chairs 
behind them, face the Judge’s bench in semicircular and ascend- 
ing rows. An avocat, dressed in his long black silk gown and 
white tie, and looking for all the world like an Episcopal clergyman 
when in the pulpit, is addressing the Court, who, also in gowns 
and ties, but both more voluminous, sit upon their bench, with the 
prothonotaire ^ likewise begowned and betied, at his desk before 
and below them. 

And so we wander over the town. Call upon the Consul 
General of the United States, in whom I agreeably discover an old 
schoolmate and chum, and pass by an exceedingly small shoeshop, 
upon whose exceedingly large sign the legend “ Patronized by 
H. R. H. the Princess Louise,” proclaims flunkeyism to this 
western world. 

Reaching again the Windsor, we sit at the window, and look 
out over the unfinished and slowly-rising walls of the huge new 
cathedral. And the sun goes down in a glory of red and gold ; 
and on his far-reaching beams, and on the wings of the night, our 
thoughts and hearts fly away to that goal toward which all travelers’ 
thoughts are ever hastening — home. 


9 


CHAPTER XV. 


Steamer Travel on the St. Lawrence. 

Behold us, parted from that satisfaction to our souls, the Windsor, 
and therefore marked by melancholy for her own, on our cabby, 
rattling way to the wharf, en route for Sorel, a typical French- 
Canadian town, we have been told, situated some forty-five miles 
down the St. Lawrence, at the confluence of it and the Richelieu, 
and where some people whom we know are spending the summer. 
Arrived at the wharf we purchase our tickets and state-rooms in 
English, from an agent who would much rather sell them in 
French; see our trunks shot from the wharf, along a hazardous 
plank, into ^ hole in the steamer’s side and the baggage-room ; 
pass through a chattering, leave-taking crowd ; step along the 
gang-plank ; ascend to the state-room deck ; show our tickets to 
an official in uniform, who takes the proper keys from a huge 
board at his back, bristling with hooks and musical with pendant 
keys, and gives them to us ; hunt up a scarce steward, to guide us 
to our particular kennels ; leave our traps, and saunter out on 
deck. 

What a little world is gathered on a steamer’s wharf! All the 
notes of the heart, all the notes of the mind, all the notes of 
the pocket are sounded, the vibrations of each particular chord 
showing in the face and actions of each human instrument. What 
partings — the sorrowing staying and the glad going ; the sorrowing 
both staying and going ; the glad both staying and going ; and — 
let us hope that these are few — the glad staying while the sorrowful 
depart. Love, hate, jealousy, meanness, generosity, selfishness, 
overbearing pride or brutality, and shrinking humility or cowardice, 
all jostle each other, at which one gazes, and upon which he 
moralizes, at times thanking his lucky stars that he is not burdened 
with some particular femininity, and anon wishing that that kiss and 
that embrace and those falling tears had been for him, a kiss and 
embrace and tears that perhaps bring a curious choking in his 
throat and a dimness to his eyes, as a parting long gone by rises 
from the grave of a buried memory. 


Chap. XV 


STEAMER TRAVEL.— IIS 


The great steamer slowly sweeps out from its idle fellows ; the 
cordage ^nd spars along the river front blend into a little tangled, 
waterside forest; the streets melt into the houses; the houses 
shrink into a broken mass ; the spires rise up from a misty hill ; 
the great dome of the market is caught and crimsoned by the 
setting sun ; the Mont Real fades into the sky, and the steamer 
rushes, throbbing and panting, over the swift tide of the great 
river, toward the sea. 

What an essentially gregarious animal the Frenchman is, 
hating solitude, loving company, jolly, communicative, voluble, 
and making himself thoroughly at home everywhere ! How radi- 
cally and totally different from an Englishman ! And what dli 
admirable mixture of both is the American, having the stability of 
the one without his churlishness, and the vivacity of the other 
without his fickleness. (It may, perhaps, be surmised that the 
writer is an American.) 

As the sun goes down, and the little lighthouses along the 
river’s banks flash into life from field and wood and precipitous 
bluff and low-lying shore, and the cabin becomes brilliant, the 
many-tohgued and motley crowd gathers around the long tables 
where photographs and Indian goods — moccasins, pipes, bead- 
and wampum-work, bows and arrows, pin-cushions, miniature 
snow-shoes and canoes, and a hundred other things — are for sale, 
looking and handling and asking much, but buying little. Gathers 
also, and particularly, around the piano, at which a lively young 
woman is playing waltzes, which so inspire the younger portion of 
the company, that it embraces each other, and whirls around in 
the limited space, tumbling over the sofas and chairs, bumping 
against the piano and the mast and the elders, and making sore 
corns sorer, and well toes vociferous in complaint. 

Now a man with well-oiled, long, black hair, and waxed mus- 
tache and imperial, a local celebrity evidently, comes forward 
amid applause, and taking the place of the lively young lady, who 
leans easily on the piano with the crowd, rattles off sprightly 
French songs, which convulse the listeners who are French, and 
make the listeners who don’t understand mad with envy of those 
who do. 

Then a deep contralto takes the stool, but is not a particu- 
lar success ; whereupon a gesticulating declaimer has the floor. 


ji6—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XV. 


and we leave him and his howls, and Uncle Robert and I go 
below. 

Here, at the foot of the companion-way, on the main deck, is 
a little crowd of men smoking (mostly pipes), and reading; and, 
just beyond, the well-patronized bar, at which we partake of a little 
usquebaugh and get manilla cheroots. At one side of this im- 
provised smoking-room is the women’s berth-cabin, while at the 
other, forward, is an iron grating, extending from deck to ceiling, 
separating the second-class passengers from the first. Passing in 
through a little wicket-door, guarded by an official, we walk for- 
ward among these poor, seated and lying on benches and boxes 
and bales of merchandise and huge crates of cabbages, some 
awake, and talking and laughing and smoking, and others, in 
every uncomfortable attitude consistent with continued life, 
sleeping and snoring. 

Picking our way still further forward, and passing the engine- 
room, down in which the mighty mechanism is crashing and 
tearing, as if mad that its giant arm can never strike and shiver 
the near and fragile wood, we come to the sheep pens at the bow, 
whose bleating, baaing occupants, their number augmented at 
almost every landing, are j ourneying toward death. As indeed 
are we all ; and we think of it," for the most part, as little as do 
these sheep ; but follow our leader, rush into the shambles, die, 
and are eaten of worms; in which particular we are of less use 
than the sheep, except that, perhaps, worms must be sustained. 

A companionable old fellow is Uncle Robert; and now, freed 
for the moment from that shackle, his wife, disports his tongue in 
amusing reminiscence of his younger life, as, having returned aft, 
we sit in the smoking-room, and sip usquebaugh, and slowly 
exhale fragrant clouds from our manillas. But soon the shackle 
gapes for the locking; for a steward comes down, searches for 
and finds the doomed, and informs him that madame awaits him 
on high. So on high we go ; the shackle is locked, and I search 
out Jemima, with whom I hunt up the Professor, fihding him 
asleep in an easy-chair, with his head sunk on his breast, while his 
four Picketeds are sprawlingly ranging in the thicket of his beard, 
to the intense amusement of a little crowd that has gathered to 
wonder and admire. We maliciously leave him in snoring uncon- 
sciousness, and go out on deck. 


Chap. XV. 


STEAMER TRAVEL.— II/ 


A little collection of lights comes into view. We are nearing 
a landing; and the steamer’s whistle calls other and hastily moving 
lights down to the river’s edge. A dim wharf appears ; we swing 
up alongside ; the hawser is shouted over the pile ; the gang-planks 
slam out, and a little merchandise and more people get off and a 
few people get on, and we think we are off. But no. Do you see 
that pyramid of cheeses, and that pile of blue-berry boxes ? They 
must all come aboard, and they do. Four boxes of cheese, or 
three boxes of berries, are slapped on a hand-truck, and it and its 
motive man dash down the gang-plank and into the cavernous 
side of the steamer, a laden stream of trucks and men going down, 
while an unladen stream goes up, the dim light from a large fixed 
lantern making the men look like gnomes hard at work ; and in 
about an hour we count 352 boxes of cheese and 98 of berries 
stowed away in our floating warehouse. Calculating those cheeses 
at, say, $7 each, we have taken aboard $2,464 worth of dyspepsia; 
likewise 98 boxes of cholera morbus, value unknown. 

We meet a communicative man, who informs us that the 
Grand Trunk is the worst and the Canada Southern the best 
road in Canada ; and that on a special train run for Vanderbilt 
and party, consisting of an engine, tender and one car, they made, 
on the Canada Southern, iii consecutive miles in 109 consecutive 
minutes (! ?). 

The whistle trying to blow its own head off ; a commotion on 
all decks ; two lighthouse lights, like the eyes of a monster of 
black vacuity, for nothing but eyes, and the long trails of baleful 
light they throw at us over the else invisible blacker water, can be 
seen ; another and larger wharf ; buildings, which seem as if com- 
posed of but one dimly illuminated wall, for but one wall appears ; 
a shadowy crowd, fantastic in the dull red light which catches a 
head, an arm, a shoulder and a face here and there. The hawser- 
lines spring out like lithe serpents, and fall over the heads and 
shoulders of men who immediately become hauling machines ; 
the great Hawsers follow to the posts, from which the crowd surges 
away to let them drop ; the steamer bumps and grates against the 
piles ; the gang-plank shoots out like a great flat tongue, and lands 
at the foot of an ascending way like a chisel-gouge in the side of 
the wharf, and we are at Sorel, the first town of importance east 
of Montreal. 


iiS—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XV. 


We rush into the cabin and arouse our party, who are half 
asleep and awake wholly cross, and a scrimmage for traps ensues. 
Aunt Hepzibah takes charge of Uncle Robert, the Professor of 
Aunt Eunice, Bolus of traps and Victorine with more traps, and I 
of my wife and our two traveling-bags. 

We enter the out-going crowd, which is squeezed tighter and 
tighter till it passes the gangway, when, rebounding, it almost 
topples off either side of the gang-plank into the water ; walk up 
the steep gangway, down which trucks and men and merchandise 
are already beginning to charge ; have “Hotel Piche !” yelled into 
our ears, and our bags grabbed and immediately carried off, con- 
cerning which we fatalistically think that if we see them again we 
shall see them again, and if we don’t we won’t, and so saunter 
into the crowd which covers the wharf, which is on a level with the 
upper deck of the steamer, and talks with its acquaintances who 
stand leaning over the deck railing. 

We wonder why so few people have gone aboard, or whether 
some public and important personage is traveling, 'and so ask a 
neighbor, who immediately and volubly explains in remarkable 
English that the present concourse is not an unusual, but a daily 
occurrence, (or rather a nightly, for it is by this time after eleven 
o’clock), it being the principal recreation of the townspeople. So 
we wait until a great flock of sheep are persuaded into the steamer 
by the edifying example of their leader, who is dragged by the ears 
and tail before their noses, and whom they unhesitatingly follow — 
how much wiser than sheep are men ! — and then tramp over a 
board sidewalk to the Hotel Piche, whither our elders have pre- 
ceded us, at the sight of which and the room to which we are 
assigned, our hearts go down into our shoes with emphasis, as if 
determined to remain there permanently. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A Typical French-Canadian Town, and a Child’s Story. 

Where the river Richelieu, the outlet of Lake Champlain, joins 
the St. Lawrence, lies, upon its eastern shore, the town of Sorel, 
covering the little cape or point at the junction of the two rivers, 
but spreading more along and up the sheltered bank of the Riche- 
lieu, rather than by the more turbulent and wind-swept waters of 
the larger stream, which, flowing north and east, and broadening, 
encircles the many islands of an inland archipelago, and spreads 
out into the Lake St. Peter. 

Back from the town, to the south and east, stretches a level 
plain, whose sandy soil is here covered by grassy fields and little 
patches of corn and grain, while beyond, the dark-green pines 
accent the horizon line and spread away on either hand to hazy blue. 

It is market day ; and before our hotel window lies the market 
and the market-place, while the bustle that marks the day pervades 
the town, enlivens the sandy, sleepy streets, invades the stores, 
fills up the bar-rooms and hotels, and awakens every inhabitant, 
from the judge on the bench to the house-wife in the kitchen — 
servants are few and far between. In the middle of the market- 
place — a greatly widened main street — stands the market-house, 
from between whose ancient bricks the more ephemeral mortar is 
slowly falling away. In it the townspeople stand and push and 
crowd, eagerly picking up choice bits here, haggling over doubtful 
produce there, talking, calling, laughing and shouting in every 
tone possible to the human and especially the feminine voice. All 
around the market-house runs a broad wooden sidewalk, backed 
up against which are the farmers’ wagons (from which the motive 
beasts have been unharnessed) forming, with their propped-up 
shafts, a^bristling hedge. At these wagons stand the respective 
owners, crying their varied produce, their raised voices sinking 
every now and then to anxious colloquy with a prospective buyer. 

At one end, where the sidewalk has broadened into a platform 
over which is a protecting roof, are those who, in their worldly 
state not boasting of a horse and wagon, have trudged over the 

ii 


J20—A BACHELOR'S MHDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVI. 


sandy, sun-baked miles, bringing in little packages of vegetables, 
baskets of eggs, rolls of butter, pots of honey, rope-like coils of 
native smoking tobacco (which is very good), and odds and ends 
and little messes and driblets of farm produce of all descriptions, 
by which they sit or stand, and whose merits they extol. 

What a motley crowd! What a jabber of bad French and 
worse English ! What high-pitched, raspy voices I What little 
meannesses and petty cheatings — and in these, methinks, a farmer 
takes the lead. The faces of the women — the habitans — burned 
to a clayey brown, peer out from under their black straw hats, 
whose large, black ribbon-strings are tied under their chins. Over 
their shoulders and folded across their breasts are little fringed 
shawls, while from their ample waists, and over their ampler hips, 
hang short, dark-colored skirts, gathered in heavy folds at the 
waist-band. “ French peasants come across the sea I ” cry we, 
and are back again in La Belle France. 

But now the market-day draws to a close. The little Canadian 
ponies are harnessed, and they and their appurtenant wagons and 
urging owners trot and jolt and sway away toward their country 
homes. And what wagons I Mostly two poles, for shafts, fastened 
to an axle, upon which is nailed a rough box, across which is a 
board for a seat, and the equipage is complete ! 

As straws show which way the wind blows, so do little customs 
the nature of a country. For instance, there is no breeching to 
the farmers’ ponies’ harness. Why 1 The country being a dead 
level, there are no hills and so no holding back to do. The 
country roads being sparsely traveled, there are few meetings and 
so few sudden stoppages. Hence no need of breeching. Vice 
versa, no breeching, hence a level, sparsely-settled country. 

Time was, some fifty years ago, when Sorel was gayer than it 
is now ; when the rotting barracks down by the wharf were new, 
and filled with the red-coated defenders (and holders) of the 
colony; when the old, round, stone powder-house contained 
munitions of war (and assurance of domestic peace) ; when within 
the now duck-frequented, grassy yard, stiff officers drilled stiffer 
soldiers ; when the town and surrounding country, a part of the 
Ordnance Lands, were governed by the Commander-in-chief; 
when the Government House, a little way up the banks of the 
Richelieu, was majestic in summer with the presence of said 


Chap. XVI. 


A TYPICAL, ETC.—I2I 


Commander-in-chief and Governor of the Province, and gay with 
young and old and sometimes noble officers of Her Majesty’s 
army, to whose receptions came the belles of the town, and who 
sometimes carried away across the sea the hearts — and, alas, 
sometimes also the honor — of those pretty village belles, but rarely 
! the belles themselves ; and when among the whispering pines 
crowning the river bank and surrounding and ever shading the 
:> old mansion, gay groups walked and chatted and laughed, while 
ij' the low-ceiled rooms were bright with life and the wide-spreading 
j wings sheltered a goodly company. 

But now but the bat and the swallow live and build in and 
i around the deserted house ; only rats and mice trip over the 
i uneven floors of the damp and musty rooms; but the flooding 
I rain sweeps down the vanishing walks between the ragged, 
.j ancient box, and the squirrels are the only chatterers underneath 
I the pines. 

I T^e barracks, grey and weather-worn, with hilly, hollowy 
roof-trees and bulging walls, stand rotting in the barrack yard, a 
§ resort for houseless, homeless wanderers ; while the half-ruined 
I powder-house, like the ancient watch-towers along the southern 
J coast of Spain, stands boldly out upon the grassy point, mute 
I witness of the almost departed power of the Old World in the 
I New. 

\ The Aas and the Bees and the Cees, our friends, have called 
upon us during the day, and in the cool of the evening we return 
' the call en inasse. For know, oh reader, that the mercury has a 
t chance in Canada for the most remarkable activity. It can disport 
itself all the way from forty-flve degrees below to one hundred 
I above zero ; and during the day in question it has been smilingly 
I simmering at ninety in umbrageous depths. We find our friends 
ensconced for the summer in a house which has evidently been 
picked up in France and transplanted whole to its present resting- 
place, its stolidity of absolute squareness softened by the high- 
. pitched, shingled roof, sloping on all four sides from the central 
point in gently curving'^ lines to the eaves, which project, almost 
level, far beyond the red brick walls. 

The conversation becomes reminiscent and comparative. 

Soon some, indigenous, call — the Des and Efffs — to whom we 
are introduced, and with two of whom — Monsieur and Madame 


J22— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVI. 


De — ^Jemima and I presently wander off upon a moonlit tour of 
inspection, passing through the little square upon which our friends’ 
house faces, as do most of the houses of the local aristocracy, 
where arpid the rampant grass an ancient, ponderous dog of war 
lies grimly helpless, its silent throat blackened by but the peaceful 
rains. 

On the other side of the square is the Palais de Justice, of red 
brick, and common-place, but making up what it lacks in archi- 
tectural dignity by the title of its clerk, which Monsieur De recites 
with some unction — GrejJier de la Cour de Circuit ; GrejJier de la 
Couronne, et Greffier de la Paix ( /) . 

A little way up the street is an old wooden house standing 
close to the sidewalk, where, sitting at his office door, we come 
upon an aged gentleman, a notary public, to whom we are intro- 
duced. And being invited by him into the office, we learn that 
his great-grandfather, grandfather, uncle and father had officiated 
here as notaries before him ! and see, upon the dusty shelves, 
great piles of dusty, musty papers — and the persons whom they 
concern are dustier and mustier, for they were long ago dust and 
mold. 

On the way to our hotel, after we had returned to our friends’ 
house and our call was ended, some fire-flies carried past their 
intermittent lamps. 

“ Oh,” said Uncle Robert, addressing our party generally, “ if 
bed-bu ” 

“ Cimex lectulariusj interrupted the Professor. 

“ If cimexes,” resumed Uncle Robert, with an apologetic 
intonation, “were only like fire-flies, how easy to catch them! ” 

“Robert!” exclaimed Aunt Hepzibah with some asperity, 
“ how can you talk of those nasty things ! ” 

“Ah, Madam,” said the Professor eagerly, “have you ever 
considered the intelligence of those insects ? ” 

“ No, I haven’t,” answered Aunt Hepzibah, “ and I don’t 
want to — they ’re too horrid ! ” 

“ But reflect upon their wonderful mathematical accuracy,” 
went on the Professor unabashed. “ From some convenient 
crevice in the wall they emerge, and crawling to that portion of 
the ceiling directly over the sleeper — what judgment of distance ! — 
they drop ” 


Chap. XVI. 


A TYPICAL, ETC.— 123 


“ What a charming evening it is !” hastily exclaimed Jemima 
as we emerged into a patch of moonlight, looking the Professor 
full in the face. 

Uncle Robert confided to me the next morning that it was 
longer before he was allowed to fall asleep that night than if he 
had reposed upon a bedful of cimexes. 

The next day was Sunday, and we all went with our American 
friends to the English Church, the only Protestant church in the 
town, whose low, square, battlemented tower and Gothic roof 
made it look as if it might have been dropped down from a 
rural English parish ; where, sitting in the high-backed, rigidly- 
uncomfortable pews, we responded somewhat faintly to the 
prayers for Her Majesty the Queen and their sundry Highnesses 
the Royal Family, wondering meantime how many prayers 
would be necessary to carry H. R. H. the Prince of Wales to 
Heaven. 

In the drowsy afternoon I walked out to the skirt of the pine 
forest beyond the town, telling Jemima where I was going and 
gaining her promise to follow shortly ; and there, stretched on the 
soft, fragrant carpet of brown needles, with my head resting 
against the jutting root of a huge pine, wandered unknowingly 
from waking thought to dreams. And I dreamed that I was by 
the old English Church ; when who should come out but a bride 
and groom, followed by their attendant men and maids, pair by 
pair. But in place of the roses and cream of the maidens’ cheeks 
and the darker hue of the men’s, all faces and hands and necks 
were of burnished gold, which glistened and gleamed in the sun, 
and over the graceful shoulders of the women hung draperies of 
deep, dead gold, while their skirts were of deep, dead black, and 
the clothes of the men were of gold above and black below. The 
organ sounded from the open door the stirring notes of the wed- 
ding march — but the tones lost their charm; became harsh and 
cracked, and I awoke to the fact that an inquisitive squirrel was 
chatteringly proceeding to investigate my nose. Frightened by 
an involuntary movement, he fled away up the tree ; but embol- 
dened by my continued quiet and, doubtless, gentle looks, he 
came gradually back in a succession of chattering fits and spitting 
starts, till he was again close to my face, when I incontinently 
sneezed, whereat he rushed up the tree in a perfect rain of bark 


J 24 —A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP, 


Chap, XVI, 


and whirlwind of spits and chatters, and was lost to the eye and 
at length to the ear. 

From marriage to death is an easy transition, for one is always 
the cause of the other ; and I remembered having seen that morn- 
ing a young father walking down the street, clad in black, around 
his hat a broad, white band which hung down his back, and carry- 
ing under his arm a little white coffin, in which, we were told, was 
his first and only child ; and his brother walked behind him, tlie 
only mourner. Poor fellow — poor as to hope and poor as to pocket 
— he was carrying his baby to be cheaply laid by the priest in 
consecrated ground. 

Soon another kind of chattering was heard, and Jemima 
appeared, surrounded by a little crowd of small Aas and Bees and 
Cees, and looking like a young and diminutive shepherdess lead- 
ing a flock of highly-colored lambs. They came to my tree, and 
sitting down, the youngsters vociferously demanded of her a story. 
I backed up the request, with the proviso that I might smoke 
meanwhile. 

“You won’t laugh ?’’ she said to me, a little nervously. 

“ Never !’’ I replied. “ Is it to be very funny T' 

“ No, not that,” she said. “ But I don’t like to tell stories 
before grown-up people, for ” 

“ Even your husband 

“Yes, even my husband; for — well, I will!” — looking at me 
half pathetically. “Now, children,” turning to the attentive, up- 
turned faces — for Jemima always fascinates children, as she does 
some people of a larger growth — “be good and quiet, and when 
I’m all through you can ask as many questions as you like.’’ And 
then she told them this story, which she called 

The Journey Home. 

Harry went to church one summer’s morning with his father 
and mother ; and the white-haired old minister, whose kindly old 
eyes seemed to him to look, every now and then, right into his, as 
much as to say, “ Are you paying attention, and do you under- 
stand ?” took these words for his text: “Inasmuch as ye have 
done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done 
it unto me.” 


Chap. XVL 


THE JOURNEY HOME.— I2S 


Although the minister spoke as plainly, no doubt, as he could, 
yet, as he was speaking to the grown-up people, Harry couldn’t 
exactly understand what he meant; and he felt very much like 
saying, when the kindly old eyes looked at him, “Yes, I am pay- 
ing attention, but I don’t understand.’’ 

And so when, after supper, they were all sitting on the piazza, 
in the gloaming — that time of all the twenty-four hours when all 
the good and gentle thoughts there are in the world come out 
from their hiding-places and enter, or try to enter, into the minds 
and hearts and so into the lives of men — Harry asked his father 
if he wouldn’t tell him what that text meant. So his father, in plain 
and gentle words, told of the meaning; and they all talked on, 
in the gathering night, of Bible lands ; of Eastern men ; of the 
great Desert and its stony wonders, till regretful bed-time came for 
the younger ones, and Harry went to bed. 

Harry suddenly awoke — or dreamed he awoke. As he raised 
himself on his elbow, behold, his room was filled with the bright 
sunlight, streaming in from one of the windows, and the floor was 
covered with shining, reddish-grey sand, which poured in from 
over the window-sill, and which, as he looked out, seemed to stretch 
away, a great level plain, as far as his eyes could reach. And 
through the window, the head and long neck of a camel were 
poked into the room, and its large, dreamy eyes looked around in 
a slow and solemn fashion, as wondering what sort of a place that 
was. And Harry, in his turn, rather wondered what that camel 
could be doing out there by the window, and why it was that the 
earth had risen to the level of his room, or if his room had sunk 
to the level of the earth ; and why, instead of the green grass, 
and the trees with their long, waving branches and tremulous 
leaves, and the flower-beds bright with purple and scarlet and 
metallic hues, the sand, like the sand on the grey beach, where 
the waves used to come tumbling over each other as if eager to play 
with him, stretched away and away toward the purple sky and 
some strange, sharp-pointed mounds, like little hills, that stood up 
black against the rising sun. 

But he didn’t wonder much nor long ; for nothing in dreams 
seems very strange or out of place, and the queerest things seem 
quite natural and as they should be. And then, as the camel 
began looking at him quite steadily, and seemed to smile “ good 


126 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVI. 


morning,” he jumped out of bed upon the carpet of sand that 
spread over the floor and that felt so soft and warm to his feet, 
and going up to the camel, who put its head down in the most 
friendly way, he stroked its soft nose, and patted it between the 
eyes, and, wondering whether the length of its neck was not very 
inconvenient, said “ good morning.” 

The camel didn’t answer, although it looked as if it wanted 
to ; but, instead, a boy of about his own age, Harry thought, and 
height, came to the window and said some of the queerest words 
he had ever heard, but of which, in the strangest way, he seemed 
to know the meaning at once — that they meant ” good morning.” 
So he said ” good morning” and asked the boy to come in, with 
the pleasantest smile he could command. 

How curiously the boy was dressed ! His pantaloons were 
blue, and looked like two bags, one on each leg, with the mouth 
of the bag tied tight just below the knee. His pretty, short jacket 
was of scarlet cloth, embroidered with gold thread and gold lace, 
with a white cross on the breast. Under the half-open jacket was 
a white shirt; and on his head was a soft white cloth, wound 
round and round to make a hat, which Harry remembered his 
father had said was called a turban ; and on his feet were yellow 
morocco slippers, with long pointed toes, turned up a little. But 
the best of all was his face, so jolly and kind and manly; and 
his eyes seemed two dancing suns, so active and bright were 
they. 

Harry and he stood looking at each other a moment, and 
then Harry asked him his name. 

“ Abdallah,” said he ; and Harry seemed to know at once 
that it meant ” The Servant of God.” 

“Won’t you hurry and dress yourself, Harry,” said Abdallah, 
still speaking his strange language, which Harry seemed, as 
before, to understand without any trouble. “ I want you to go 
with me.” 

“Where?” said Harry, thinking how strange it was that 
Abdallah should have known his name, but not thinking it at all 
strange that he should have been there, so inconsistent are we 
sometimes — in dreams. 

“ To where our dear Lord lives,” replied Abdallah. And as 
he said “our dear Lord,” such a happy smile broke over his 


Chap. XVL 


THE JOURNEY HOME.— I2r 


beautiful face, and such happy tears shone in his eyes, that it 
seemed as if his dear Lord must be right there by him. 

“ And where does your dear Lord live,” asked Harry, “ and 
will he be my dear Lord too ? ” 

“ Indeed he will,” said Abdallah — and he put his arm around 
Harry’s shoulder in such a loving way — “for He sent me to you; 
and He lives away over there beyond the sunrise. But hurry up, 
Harry, for the others are waiting for you.” 

“ What others t ” said Harry. 

“Get dressed and come out, and you’ll see,” replied 
Abdallah. 

So Harry washed himself, and put on his clothes as fast as 
ever he could ; and then Abdallah fastened a white cross, just like 
his own, on his breast, and they walked toward the window, out of 
which the camel had taken his long neck and was standing, a 
silhouette against the crimson sky. (Ask your mothers what that 
long word “ silhouette ” means.) 

Harry and Abdallah stepped out, and what a wonderful sight 
Harry saw ! Away on his right hand, and away on his left, and 
away before him to the sunrising, the great plain of sand spread, 
as level as the sea, but, like the great swell of the sea, rising in low, 
far-spreading mounds, and sinking in wide and shallow valleys ; and 
this, Abdallah said, was called the Desert. Above his head was 
a sky without a cloud, in which the waning moon was sinking 
toward the west, while in the east the sun was rising like a great 
burning ball, which seemed to set the heavens on fire, so high and 
wide shot its red and gold light, against which the level line of the 
Desert lay cold and black, tinted here and there on the tops of 
the rising mounds with the crimson and gold of the sunrise, which 
seemed to break, like waves of fire, against the further side of 
those strange, sharp-pointed hills, shining and glowing over their 
edges. And those hills, Abdallah said, were the Pyramids, which 
long, long ago, the kings who lived in those days had built for 
their tombs, so that they might never be forgotten. 

But, what was stranger than the Desert and the Pyramids, was 
a great crowd of children — boys and girls, little and big — a short 
way off on the sand ; and toward these Harry and Abdallah went. 

As soon as the children saw them they all ran to them ; and 
then Harry saw that Abdallah and he were taller and stronger 


J 28 --A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVI. 


than any of the rest. They were dressed in many kinds of cos- 
tume : some like his ; a few like Abdallah’s ; some whose clothes 
were rough and ill-made ; some whose clothes were ragged and 
patched ; two or three in strange garments of skins ; and several 
little darkies ran around quite naked, their little bodies seeming 
to be fitly clothed with their dark, shining skins. But each child 
wore a white cross on its breast. 

Although each child spoke its own language, the language of 
its country, yet every one was understood by all the rest. For with 
them, as it had been with Harry, the strange words seemed to 
carry their meaning with them, as if some one was whispering it 
in the ear. But whenever any one said a cross word, or an unkind 
word, or a bad word — for sometimes they did — no one seemed to 
understand, and the word was lost in the air and the sand. 

And now, all the children being gathered around, Abdallah 
said, “ Come, let us go toward Home, to our Father’s House, where 
our dear Lord is waiting for us.” 

Then he and Harry, whom he seemed to have chosen for his 
lieutenant, put the children in order, the larger by the smaller and 
the stronger by the weaker, that all might help each other on the 
way. And in each child’s hand they placed a staff, and over each 
child’s shoulder they slung a flask of clear, cold water. And in 
the rear of the troop stood four solemn-looking camels, the first 
bearing the water in two huge skins, the second* food, the third 
staves of all sizes, and the fourth clothes of all kinds. 

So when all were ready, Abdallah placed himself at the head 
of the strange little company, and Harry took his place at his side, 
and just behind them was a strong, tall boy, with such a kind, 
strong, helpful face, carrying a white banner, and on this banner 
was written in letters of gold. Love. 

“Forward!” said Abdallah. And every child, with the red 
light of the sun shining in its eyes ; with the red light of the sun 
tinging the spotless white of the cross on its breast — as the red 
blood stained the white robes of their dear Lord as, having con- 
quered Death, he showed his wounded, bleeding side, to his Father 
and their Father, as ransom for their souls — every child stepped 
out, and the march Homeward was begun. 

But soon a wonderful thing happened. As the sun rose higher 
and higher, and his rays fell hot on the little heads and tender 


Chap. XVI. 


THE JOURNEY HOME.— i2g 


bodies, the white Banner of Love began to spread and spread its 
folds, stretching further and further, broader and broader, till, 
turned as if by an invisible hand, it spread over the whole troop, 
a white, waving tent, under which the breeze blew cool and strong, 
and in whose protecting shadow life came back to the weary little 
feet, and hope to the fainting little hearts, and eyes were brightened 
and heads were lifted and steps were quickened on the march 
toward Home. But, more wonderful still, the bearer of this Banner 
seemed never to feel the increasing weight, seemed never to tire 
under the increasing load, seemed never to yield to the increasing 
strain of the waving folds, but as his burden became greater, his 
strength seemed to grow — for the burden he bore was Love. 

And so, marching on, sometimes singing all together, a chorus 
of happy childish voices (and the strains seemed to be caught up 
by other voices, high up toward the blue dome of the sky) ; 
stopping when Abdallah thought it best, for rest and for food, the 
day wore away ; and as the coolness of night came on, the folds of 
the wonderful Banner drew themselves in, and the stars peeped 
out one by one to look at these children going Home. 

Then, as the darkness deepened, and the tired little eyelids 
began to droop over the sleepy eyes, Abdallah called them all 
around him ; and kneeling with them on the soft sand, prayed to 
his Lord and their Lord to watch over them during the coming 
night, and to wake them up to the light of the sun ; or, if it was 
His wijl, to wake such of them as He would to the light of His 
smile in their Home. 

And, as they nestled them down for the night — the younger 
and the timid creeping into the arms of the older and braver — the 
great Banner of Love unfolded its strong wings again, and spread 
close over the sleeping little ones ; and from its under side came a 
faint, soft light, that robbed the night of its terrors, and seemed 
the light from the eyes of a mother, brooding over her sleeping ones. 

With the morning they found that their Lord had willed to 
take one little one the shorter journey Home; for in her place, 
’ where she had lain, were but her staff and her flask and her 
clothes ; for she would not need them in her Home ; but, Abdallah 
said, would be clothed in her own innocence and lovely purity, 
and would eat delicious fruits from the Trees of Life, and drink 
cool, sweet water from the Springs of Love, in that Beautiful Land 


Jjo—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVI. 


where she had gone. And as some, whose playmate she had 
been, wept because they could not see her till they too should 
reach Home, Abdallah bid them all rejoice, because they now 
had a friend and playmate waiting to welcome them when they 
did reach Home, and because her little feet were spared the 
harder way. So they took her clothes and her staff and her flask, 
and laid them tenderly (because they had belonged to her) in the 
sand ; and Abdallah, with them all, knelt down, and thanked the 
dear Lord that He had been pleased to take their little sister by 
that shorter way. Then they all felt comforted, and, slinging on 
their flasks and grasping their staves, set out again on their march 
toward Home. 

It was found this day that each child had grown since the 
day before, and the good in some and the bad in others was 
stronger, according as each had used the hours of the preceding 
day. And some were disheartened, and cried out that they were 
tired, and sat down, and would go no further ; and these Abdallah 
and Harry persuaded to drink from their flasks, and to come 
again under the shadow of the Banner; which when they had 
done, they were cheered again, and helped to hearten others. 

But others were rebellious, and wandered away from the 
shadow of the Banner, and lost their flasks, and thought they saw 
other and better water in far-away streams, and other and better 
food on far-away trees, and, insisting on going to those deceitful 
streams and trees, to which they could never come, fell down and 
died from thirst and heat; and the sands drifted over them, and 
they were lost to sight and forgotten : and yet not wholly forgotten, 
for their companions mourned over them and their self-brought 
fate. 

Sometimes one of these rebellious ones, having seen his mis- 
take, when the false rivers and trees had vanished and left in 
their place but the grey sand and blinding heat, would call out 
for help from far away ; and then Harry or Abdallah or some of 
the stronger ones, hearing that cry (for no matter how far the 
repentant wanderer had strayed — no matter how many miles and 
miles separated him from the Banner — those under its shadow 
always heard his faintest cry), one of them would run to him, and 
give him drink from his own flask, and help him back again to 
the shadow of the Banner. 


Chap. XVL 


THE JOURNEY HOME.^131 


One day — how quickly days pass in dreams — one day 
toward noon, when the sun was hot overhead, and the sands, 
away from the cooling shade of the Banner, seemed like coals of 
fire under the feet, Harry heard a faint cry for help from far in the 
rear. He was very tired, for he had been carrying the little ones, 
cheering the disheartened, persuading back the wanderers, and 
helping everywhere ; but hearing that cry, he forgot his weariness, 
and leaving the shadow, started back. Fainter and fainter came 
the cry. The sun beat down, the sand was hot, and his throat 
was parched with thirst. He took a sip from his flask — only a little 
though, so as to leave enough for the exhausted one — and hurried 
on. At last, away in the distance, he saw a child whom he had 
rescued many times ; who would wander again and t again, and 
who had brought him many a weary, anxious hour. But he did 
not hesitate, but ran on as fast as he could. 

At last he came to him, lying exhausted on the sand, nearly 
dead, but stretching out his trembling arms toward the false rivers 
and phantom trees which he thought he saw, and calling to the 
rivers to come and give him their water, and to the trees to come 
and give him their fruit and shade — ^but there was nothing but the-. 
sand and the heat. ** 

Harry stooped over the poor little wanderer, who though so> 
misguided was yet so pitiful, and holding his flask to his lips, toldi 
him to drink. He grasped the flask and tried to swallow — but 
Death had his terrible hand on his little throat, and he could not. 
But, rising suddenly from the ground, he stretched out his arms, 
and calling to the shining rivers and the beautiful trees, the light 
from those cruel rivers went out from his eyes, and a shade darker 
than that of those lying trees crept over his brow, and he fell in 
the sand, dead. 

Harry knelt beside him, and lifted his head to see if perhaps 
there might be some life left. The eager look was still on his face 
and in his wide open eyes, but the warmth of life was going, and 
the stony hand of Death was turning him to stone, and he was 
but a part of the earth from which he had come. 

So Harry laid him gently down, and closed his pretty, sight- 
less eyes, and dug a little grave in the sand with his hands, and 
laid him in it, and covered him up, and started to go back. But 
his flask ! Where was his flask ? Oh now, dear Lord, have pity 


J 32 —A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVI. 


upon him ! In the sand, the last drop gone, lay his empty flask ; 
and without the water, where was his life ? Lost ! 

He fell on his knees and prayed. Prayed his dear Lord to 
give him strength for the journey back : prayed his dear Lord to 
help him bear this terrible thirst ; but also prayed that, if he had 
not the strength for this longer way, his dear Lord v/ould take 
him, by that shorter way. Home. 

He looked for the company of childr-en, but they were no- 
where to be seen. On every side lay the wide, grey plain, quiver- 
ing with the heat that rose from the burning sand, while in a great 
circle the sky surrounded him, and he stood alone, as if he were 
the only being on the earth. But calling on his dear Lord for 
courage and strength, he commenced the journey back. 

Oh weary way ; oh blinding heat ; oh pitiless sky and more 
pitiless sun that beats its rays down on his poor, bursting head ! 
How deep the sand seems to grow. The earth seems to heave 
like the waves of a great fiery sea. He falls. He rises and strug- 
gles on. His mouth is parched and he cannot cry for help. He 
falls again. He cannot rise. And now he thinks he sees his 
father and his mother passing by, but they cannot hear him. 
“ Father ! Mother ! ” — but they cannot hear. But One does hear. 
From the bright sky — bright now with a soft, white light that 
shines around the descending Man — comes He of the loving face, 
He of the pitying heart. He to whose gentle arms little children 
came and were blessed. “ It is, oh, it is my dear Lord ! Oh, 
don’t leave me — take me ! ” 

Over him bent a beautiful face. Into his eyes looked such 
loving eyes, from which the tears were falling, one by one, for the 
suffering of this His child. In strong arms he was lifted up, and 
up, and up — and he knew he was going that shorter way Home. 

And as he lay on his dear Lord’s breast, in his ears were 
whispered these words : “ Inasmuch as thou hast done it for one 
of the least of these, thou hast done it for Me.” 

And Harry awoke — for it was all a dream. 


I could not speak ; but, while the wondering little ones looked 
on, I took my wife in my arms, and thanked God in my heart 
that such a soul belonged to me. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A Picnic, and Stories around the Camp-Fire. 

A DAY or two after, when the bi-daily walk to the post-office 
had ceased to be exciting, and the tri-daily recurrence of meals 
had become something to look forward to, we received an invita- 
tion from M. and Mme. De to a yachting party. To say that our 
several spirits rose upon the perusal of the little billet^ would be to 
but feebly express the hilarity it occasioned. The vote for accept- 
ance was unanimous, which acceptance Aunt Hepzibah inscribed 
in her very best French, and then Jemima rushed off to ascertain 
whether the Aas and Bees and Cees were invited (as we were 
sure they were), and whether they were going : and she found they 
were. So the next day saw his all assembled at the wharf on the 
Richelieu, looking down upon the dainty steam-yacht of our host. 
A laughing and chattering scramble aboard ; a settling of con- 
genialities (the Professor by Aunt Eunice) and we left Sorel, and, 
steaming down the Richelieu, floated out upon the broad bosom of 
the St. Lawrence. We passed large islands whereon sheep and 
cows were grazing ; wound in and out of narrow channels, 
where the banks were heavily wooded to the water’s edge, and 
reached the islet which was our destination, (one among the many 
which make up the archipelago at the head of Lake St. Peter), on 
which towers a wooden lighthouse which, in spring, emerges with 
the Surrounding trees from the rushing brown water which covers 
all these leaser islands with its flood. 

And then Bolus (whom we had asked to be allowed to bring, 
with Victorine) showed his administrative capacity ; for he imper- 
turbably assumed the position (which did not belong to him) of 
autocrat of all the servitors ; appointed Victorine his prime minis- 
tress, and brought spread order out of packed chaos, to the end of 
a delicious luncheon upon a snowy cloth upon the short, green 
grass, inviting to the most jaded appetite. And, as our appetites 
were the reverse of jaded, we fell to ; and but disorderly remnants 
remained to tell the once orderly tale : and as we finished. Uncle 
Robert said to the company generally, with a satisfied sigh, “ The 


J34—^ BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chop. XVII. 


proof of the pudding is in the eating. We have eaten that pud- 
ding and found it good.” Then, as we lay on the soft grass, or 
rested against the smooth trunks of the towering trees, chat and 
banter, masculine wreathed with smoke, and feminine unwreathed, 
flew around the merry company — winged thoughts, invisible to the 
eye but sensible to the ear, apparent upon the receptive mind by 
smile or answering jest. 

“ No,” said Mr. Bee, as he looked approvingly at his wife’s 
fair forehead, from which the dark hair rippled back in little 
waves, and quizzically at Mile. Efff’s thatched front, “with all 
respect to the present company, give me the hair-dressing of our 
immediate ancestors.” 

“ But,” said Mme. Efff, taking up the cudgels for her offspring, 
“ one feels all out of doors with a perfectly bare forehead — so 
uncovered.” 

“ But, Madame,” replied Mr. Bee, “ evidently our ancestresses 
didn’t feel so, and why should we? And besides why should one 
— like ma’m’selle there — cover an intellectual forehead ” (Made- 
moiselle smiled again) “ and so reduce herself to the level of the 
woman who must cover her unintellectuality in self-defense ” 
(Mademoiselle insensibly pushed back her bangs), “thanking her 
stars meantime that her apparently intellectual sisters cover theirs 
likewise, and so render it possible for her to be mistaken for one 
of their ilk? And why should our wives and sisters ape Mile. 
Demimonde, when they certainly don’t approve of her ?’' 

“ But it’s the fashion,” said Mrs Cee (whose bang was posi- 
tively awful), “ and one might as well be out ” 

“Speaking of bangs,” broke in Mr. Aa, with an evident 
looking toward peace, “reminds me of a good story, illustrating 
the penalty sometimes incurred by wearing a combination of 
bangs and bandoline.” 

“ Let’s hear it,” said Uncle Robert — Aunt Hepzibah uses 
bandoline on the little spit-curl on each temple. 

“Well,” said Mr. Aa, “the girl that the story is told about 
went to church one summer morning with her George. It was 
hot ; and the flies, emulating Satan, flew about seeking whom 
they might devour. At first their attentions were impartially 
divided among the congregation, to the joy of Mr. Satan and the 
despair of the Spirit of Charity. But soon the worshipers in the 


Chap. XVI/. 


A PICNIC.— 135 


immediate vicinity of our girl — who was pretty, and whose brown 
locks, instead of wilting in the heat, like those of her neighbors, 
Curled crisply over her fair forehead — began to experience per- 
sonal relief, and to observe an unusual buzzing around her 
pretty head. ‘ Did you ever see so many flies in your life, Nell ! ’ 
said her George, as they walked down the aisle at the conclusion 
of service. ‘ I’ll never do it again, George,’ replied Nell, almost 
in tears. ‘ Do what ? ’ said George, in astonishment. ‘ Why, I 
curled my hair with sugar and water this morning ! ’ answered 
Nell ; and then the flies discovered her again, and gamboled over 
her as she walked down the steps.” 

We all laughed — Uncle Robert roared, and I heard him say 
in an undertone to his wife, “ Do you ever use sugar and water 
Aunt Hepzibah suddenly stopped laughing and looked at him. 
He thereafter only laughed, and in a perfunctory way. 

“ I suppose he married her,” said M. De. 

“Well, the story doesn’t say,” replied Mr. Aa, “but it would 
be only natural.” 

“And then they went to housekeeping,” said Mrs. Aa. 

“And he mixed her bandoline for her,” said I. 

“Never!” ejaculated Jemima. 

“Apropos of housekeeping,” said Mr. Aa, — “by the way, 
my .dear, do you remember our early trials with Bridget and the 
range.?” — to his wife. 

“Quite too well,” she replied. , 

•“Apropos of housekeeping,” he continued, “ I heard the other 
day of a patent issued to a St. Louis man for an automatic fire- 
lighting machine. It might be taken at first sight for an infernal 
machine, but it isn’t. It consists of a hollow brass tube, charged 
with chlorate of potassium, attached to a clock and a sulphur 
match. You set the indicator at, say, seven o’clock, and put the 
machine down in front of the range, in which is the coal and 
wood all ready to be lighted. Then you go to bed. When seven 
o’clock arrives the clock lights the match, which lights the contents 
of the tube, which lights the fire, and when you come down there 
is the range all ready for cooking. Single women don’t pine for 
handy, good-natured husbands any more : the machine takes their 
place, and doesn’t growl at the breakfast which you would other- 
wise have to cook for the human fire-lighter.” 


136— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVII. 


“ Let us get one,” Jemima said to me. 

"‘All right,” I replied, “then you can dispense with your 
handy, good-natured husband, and ” 

“ Stuff and nonsense ! ” she exclaimed, and the rest laughed ; 
but Mile. Efff said she thought a husband was better than any 
patent fire-lighter ; whereat certain of us men felt somewhat com- 
passionate, for Mademoiselle’s matrimonial chances seemed as if 
they might be somewhat remote. 

“ Ah, mad’moiselle,” said M. D6, " matrimony is not always 
couleur de rose : listen to this.” And he took a newspaper cutting 
from his pocket and read : 

“ He counted the kisses. Curious record of matrimonial 
salutes kept by a Frenchman. Perhaps of all nations in the world 
the French are most given to the practice of statistics, and in 
carrying it out they take into consideration all manner of subjects 
which would never enter the minds of other people. As a case in 
point it is narrated of a Frenchman, who recently died, that on 
his wedding day, some twenty years ago, he took the resolution 
of keeping a yearly record of the number of kisses exchanged 
with his wife until their union should be severed by the death of 
one or the other. He was destined to be the first to go ; but when 
on his sick-bed, foreseeing that he would not recover, he begged a 
friend to let the world know the result of his twenty years of 
account keeping. During the first year of wedded life the kisses 
exchanged reached the colossal figure of 36,500, or on an average 
100 a day, but in the following twelvemonths there was a notable 
decrease, not more than 16,000 being inscribed on his register ; 
whilst the third year shows a still greater falling off, the average 
number of kisses being but ten a day. After the lapse of five 
years a further reduction is recorded, and the account keeper’s 
task was simplified, for only two kisses were exchanged during 
each twenty-four hours — one in the morning on rising, and the 
other on retiring to rest. Later on, during the last ten years of his 
married life, they only kissed each other on leaving for or return- 
ing from a journey, and he had hence very little trouble in making 
up his annual domestic statistics.” 

“Beware, Miss Efff!” said the Professor — and he took care 
that Aunt Eunice should not hear him — “think of the sensible 
v/oman who, having read Winchell’s description of the Last Man, 


Chap. XV IL 


A PICNIC.— 137 


ever after refused to marry, for fear her remote descendant might 
. be that last, lone man.” 

But Mile. Efff did not seem to take kindly to the warning, 
r ” Can’t some one tell us a story ?” said Uncle Robert, upon 
whom the matrimonial drift of the conversation seemed to jar. 

” Oh, that will be just the thing ! ” exclaimed Jemima. 

“ But, if you are willing, let us first go to the top of the light- 
house and see the sun set,” said M. De to her, as the red rays 
streamed in among the trees, “and then we will sit around the 
camp-fire and tell stories until the moon rises.” 

The proposition was agreed to by acclamation, and we 
ascended. 

From that height, above the trees, the great river stretched 
away in the distance, a broad, silver band through the level green, 
j while at our feet the shining water-ways among the wooded islands 
crept in and out, in and out beneath the heavy, overhanging 
limbs, seeming like polished paths about some vast demesne. 
;■ And as the sun sank in the western sky, his rays of orange flame 
k burned on the greater flood, and shone with softened gleam on still, 

I deep pool and winding water-way, till, deepening to the glowing 
red of embers soon to die, his fires were quenched within the Avaiting 
clouds, and night spread; ashen-hued, over the darkening world. 

The camp-fire blazed brightly as we gathered around it, send- 
ing fitful gleams among the black and silent trunks, making the 
cordon of the night fantastic with strange, shadowy forms that 
seemed to flit on soundless feet around the circle from the fire. 

“ Now,” said Jemima, as the light flashed unevenly upon the 
semi-circle of recumbent figures, “ now we are ready — who will 
begin ?” 

I Abashed by that sense of duty spurred yet loth to move, or 
i;j' eagerness to speak checked by timidity, each one was silent — the 
silence of expectancy. When Mr. Aa, with the slight apparent 
f ; nervousness of the pioneer, said, “ If you don’t mind listening to a 
1 poem. I’ll give you one that the scene recalls. Did any of you 
1-^ ever hunt deer by torchlight?” 

M. De and I said we had, while the rest asked him to 
describe it. 

“ That’s what the poem will do,” he answered, “ but you ought 
, to understand, before I begin, something of the modus operandi. 


ijS—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. Chap. XVII. 


They hunt the deer in that way in the Adirondack region, where 
the scene of the poem is laid, only in the months of June and 
July — after that, with dogs. The ‘jack,’ which is a lantern made 
of birch bark generally, open on one side, is fixed on the end of 
a short pole which is fastened at the prow of the canoe, and as 
the light is thrown forward of course, the hunter in the fore part 
of the boat and the paddler at the stern are in darkness. As the 
canoe moves along the marshy, wooded shores, the deer sees 
nothing but the light and stands fascinated, while the men see the 
deer clearly and, if the wind is from the deer to them, are able to 
approach very near, as the paddler makes absolutely no sound — 
which is the height of the art of paddling. Of course they can’t 
hunt in moonlight, for then the deer can see the men and the boat. 
And now,” continued he, with a smile in his voice, ” as I’ve given 
you the text, I’ll preach the sermon. Better all make yourselves 
comfortable, so that you can go to sleep in true orthodox fashion.” 

There was the usual laughing protest, and likewise the usual 
settle looking to present comfort and possible future repose. 

” The poem,” he began, ” is called 

A Night Hunt. 


Where Racquette’s rushing waters spread 
Their tide, erst swift, o’er shallow bed. 
Pausing to kiss the reedy shore 
With kiss of peace, and lave the hoar 
Old pine trees’ roots in rippling floods. 

And spread in nooks wherein the broods 
Of callow ducklings blithe may play 
Throughout the long, bright summer day, 
And dive and swim and trim each plume 
Of downy gold, and when the gloom 
Of night falls o’er the landscape, warm 
’Neath sheltering wings rest safe from harm; 
Where, high upon the wooded hills, 
Beside the banks of trickling rills. 

And in the vales’ cool, shady groves. 

The timid deer securely roves, 


Chap. XVII. 


A NIGHT HUNT.—ijg 


His carpet moss, and for his roof 

The branching hemlocks’ feathery woof; — 

The sunset beams athwart the sky 
In molten gold shot wide and high, 

And garmented the glowing west 
In robes of crimson, and impressed 
On leaf and shrub and branching limb, 

On hemlock’s crest raised tall and slim, 

On blasted pine whose naked boughs 
Raised high their arms as if in vows 
Of vengeance ’gainst the scathing flame 
From which their barren woes all came. 

On rippling waves by zephyrs tossed, 

On shining wakes where wild fowl crossed 
Their tiny swells, on all the scene 
Their wondrous glow incarnadine. 


And as on wave and shore did rest 
These burning glories of the west. 

Their gleams with roseate colors dyed 
A birch canoe which stemmed the tide, 
And starred with gems the paddle’s blade. 
Whose dipping echoes swept the glade. 

So still was water, earth and air 
In that June sunset’s reddening glare. 

And faint the western glory grew ; 

The trees their lengthened shadows threw 
Across the water’s still expanse. 

And insect pipes did but enhance 
The stillness of the evening hour. 

While heralding night’s coming power. 

The listening hunters softly bent 
To catch the sounds which faintly rent 
The pall of silence, and which bore. 

From wooded knolls beyond the shore, 
Light fall of hoofs and part of grass 
And snap of twigs, as on did pass 


J 40 —A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVII. 


The hungry deer to pastures green 
Beside the water’s paling sheen. 

But now the moon, which erst abode 
Veiled by light clouds, in splendor rode 
Athwart the zenith’s blue expanse, 

And touched the waves with silvery glance. 
And lighted up with sun-like gleam 
The borders of the fringed stream. 

But as more bright the waters grew, 

So o’er each brow hot anger flew, 

For suited not were moonlight beams 
To hunters’ deeds on woodland streams. 

“ But patience,” whispered each to each, 
‘‘The moon floats down the western reach.” 
So to an overhanging branch 
They firmly moored their fragile launch, 
And, sheltered by surrounding shade, 

Laid softly down the boatman’s blade, 

And rested, on the bottom stretched 
Of their frail craft, till time had fetched 
The moon far on her westward way. 

And darkness had resumed its sway. 

III. 

Oh gentle hush, when o’er the land 
Night stretches forth her dusky hand ! 

The twinkling stars peep through the shade ; 
The insects hum far down the glade ; 

Borne with the ripples by the boat. 

The passing sticks thud as they float ; 

The songsters of the night, by edge 
Of .slimy bank or reedy sedge, 

Sing to their mates in pipings high. 

While some old patriarch, sitting nigh, 

In gruffer tones, of muddy taint, 

Booms forth the burden of his plaint. 

The wreaths of mist, like sheeted ghosts. 
Sweep o’er the water’s breast in hosts. 


Chap, XVIL 


A NIGHT HUNT—141 


Twisting and turning as they fly, 

Like to lost souls in agony, 

While sobs and sighs and prayers and moans 
Breathe through the pines in saddest tones. 
And far o’erhead, in eddying streams, 

Aurora’s fires throw wide their gleams ; 
Leaping aloft in silvery light. 

Now changing quick to ruby bright, 

Glowing and paling like the blush 
On maiden’s cheek, flush after flush. 

As rests she 'neath th’ admiring eye 
Of 'passioned lover standing nigh. 

Oh sacred hour, how soft the spell 
Thou castest over those who dwell 
Amid the scenes which nature spreads 
With lavish hand for him who treads 
With open heart and watchful eye 
Her various paths, and passes by 
Nor rock, nor tree, nor leaf, nor flower 
That speaks not of that mighty Power 
Who shaped their form and gave them birth — 
The Maker of all heaven and earth. 


IV. 

But downward, downward sinks the moon ; 
Her gentle light, to earth a boon. 

Fades slowly, and o’er land and sky 
Night spreads her blackest canopy. 

Now is the “jack’' placed in the prow; 
From birchen walls the candles glow ; 

The boat moves from the water's brink — 
While startled frogs in teiTor sink 
With hasty croak to muddy deeps — 

Then slow among the sedges creeps ; 

While at the prow, with lips compressed, 
And rifle on his knee at rest,^ 

And glance shot far into the night, 

Ahead, and to the left and right, 


142 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVIL 


One hunter sits, and at the stern 
Rests he whose blade with dexterous turn 
Propels upon its watery way 
The sylvan craft of birch- bark grey. 


V. 

If haply on the margin stood 
One whose quick eye roved o’er the flood, 
How weird to him the scene which lay 
Before him spread ; the widening ray 
That stretched itself across the night — 

A solid bar of misty light ; 

The boat and figures scarce more black 
Than shrouding gloom which round their track 
Its curtain drew ; the river’s fringe, 

Dark with the midnight’s dusky tinge, 

Quick gleaming, as the turning prow 
Cast o’er its curves the lantern’s glow. 


VI. 

But hark ! a splash, a crackling tread 
Falls on the night air far ahead. 

The boat leaps toward the welcome sound, 
And o’er the water, bound on bound, 

Speeds as it were with life instinct. 

No paddle’s sound is with it linked, 

Though fall the strong strokes thick and fast ; 
The rocks and trees fly dimly past; 

And now into a hidden reach, 

* . 

With reeds thick growing on the beach. 

It swift pursues its silent way, 

And lights the banks with glimmering ray. 
The trees, high arching overhead. 

Start forth as if the risen dead 
Had sprung into the lantern’s light, 

Then quickly sink back into night. 

And all the gloomy way does teem 
With shadowy forms that ghostly seem. 


Chap. XV/I. 


A NIGHT HUNT.~i4s 


But now the rifle’s raised in air ; 

The paddle stops ; for in the glare 
An antlered form is dimly seen — ' 

A flash, as of the lightning’s sheen, 

With blinding light illumes the shore ; 

The echoes verberate and roar 
From hill to hill with lessening boom ; 

The vale, erst still as darkest tomb, 

Now rings with rush of feet, as fly 
The deer to other haunts ; near by 
The owl shrieks shrill in wild dismay ; 

The prowling wolf howls, reft of prey. 

But see ! Ahead the wounded deer 
Struggles through foam in frantic fear ; 

Rises and falls in bloody tide. 

The life fast ebbing from his side. 

But feebler now his dying throes ; 

Soon at an end will be his woes ; 

A choking sob — a gurgling moan — 

And in the reeds the deer lies prone. 

VII. 

The deed is done, the hunt is o’er. 

And backward from that fatal shore 
The hunters wend their joyous way 
By glimmer from the coming day, 

The while the loon’s mad laugh does wake 
The sleeeping echoes of the lake. 

And heralds the approaching morn 
With wildest notes of nature bom ! ” 

“ Graphic ! ” said Uncle Robert, sententiously. 

The sentiment was echoed, and the relator duly thanked. 
“How delicious to hunt in that romantic manner!” said 
Mile. Efff. 

“ You would probably experience the buck-fever, Mademoi- 
selle,” remarked M. De, somewhat dryly. 

“ What is that ? ” she asked. 


144 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVII. 


“ Such a disarrangement of the nerves, owing to the excite- 
ment of the occasion,” he replied, ” that your gun would probably 
shake out of your hands, and you require to be held — I mean you 
would require it to be held by your companion.” 

Every one laughed, and Aunt Eunice asked (by means of her 
next neighbor) if there really was such a fever. 

“ It’s a fact,” said Mr. Aa. “ Even the strongest men are 
affected by it the first time they attempt to shoot at a deer — very 
few people escape.” 

“What is a loon ?” asked Jemima, “ and is their cry really 
so dreadful ? ” 

“A loon, my dear madam,” replied Mr. Aa, “is an aquatic 
bird about as large as a small goose, which can dive quicker and 
swim further and faster under water than any bird I know of, 
and its cry, especially in the early morning, sounds like the 
laugh of a maniac, and can be heard in still weather for a mile 
or more.” 

“ I can vouch for the rapidity of the dive,” I said. “ One day, 
in Round Lake, a loon came up within twenty yards of the boat, 
and sat still on the water looking at us — we were at anchor, 
fishing. I quietly picked up my gun, which was loaded with 
heavy shot, and fired. The bird dove before the shot could 
reach him.” 

“ Perhaps you missed — or killed him,” said Mrs. Cee. 

“ I missed him to be sure,” I replied, “ because he got out of 
the way in time, but the shot struck the exact spot where he went 
down. And he wasn’t even touched, for he came up away on the 
other side of the boat, and laughed. We gave up fishing, and 
chased that loon for two hours — they rarely fly when pursued, as 
they are very heavy on the wing — but he got away, and we gave 
it up, and he literally had the laugh on us.” 

“ How funny ! ” said Jemima. “ Now it is some one else’s 
turn.” 

“Well,” said M. Efff — a grave, thoughtful-looking man, who 
spoke English perfectly, as indeed they all did — “ I can give you 
a legend — of a rather serious cast though, and in verse.” 

General approbation greeting the offer, he began ; 

“ It is the legend of 


Chap. XVII. 


LORD ETHELBERT.—145 


Lord Ethelbert: His Quest. 

From out the chimney’s massive throat 
The burning wood shot flying beams 

That spread o’er ceiling, wall and floor 
In bright and ruddy streams : 

Danced o’er the bookshelves, grim and tall, 
Which held within their oaken arms 

Vast store of quaint and ancient lore, 

And by-gone witches’ charms : 

Lit up with transient gleam old swords 
And rusty helms and coats of mail ; 

And tattered banners seemed to wave, 

Swept by their silent gale : 

And figures armed with spear and shield 
And clad in steel, from comers dim 

Stalked out for but an instant’s space. 

Called by the firelight’s whim. 

Within his chair Sir Royal sate, 

A musty tome upon his knee, 

Whose yellow leaves told wondrous tales 
Of deeds by land and sea : 

Brave deeds of knight for ladye fair; 

Of corsair on the stormy main ; 

Of those who fouglU, the Holy Tomb 
To win from Paynim reign. 

And as he turned them o’er and o’er — 

Those leaves by time so sore distressed — 

He chanced upon an ancient tale, 

“ Lord Ethelbert : His Quest.” 

It told how, in the days of old. 

Lord Ethelbert in distant lands 

Had wandered far, a ladye fair 
To save from cruel hands. 

And as he rode, his way, one night. 

Lay through a forest dark and lone, 


II 


} 46 —A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XVII. 


Where giant trees rose high o’erhead, 

And winds did weirdly moan. 

The moon was hid within the folds 

Of blackest clouds which hung the sky ; 

His path was plunged in deepest gloom, 

Lit by no kindly ray. 

When sudden — and the sight appalled ! 

A Shape before him hugely loomed, 

More black than even blackest night 
That all around him gloomed. 

And on his ear a solemn voice 

Fell, saying, “ Lo, thy sins appear I” 

And as it ceased, the forest dark 

Was filled with Shapes more drear. 

In wild amaze Lord Ethelbert 

Spurred on his steed those Shapes to flee ; 

But round him, in a horrid rank, 

They loomed immovably. 

The trees bent down their unseen boughs 
To smite him as he fled beneath ; 

Till, wounded, bleeding and bespent. 

He sank upon the heath. 

But as he lay with trembling limbs — 

Though braver lance did never ride — 

A glory filled the awful place 

And heaven- like voices cried, 

***** 

Sir Royal turned the moldering leaf — 

The page was blank, the words unsaid ; 

In other hand were writ the words, _ 

“ Who told this tale is dead.” 

And thus it is, Sir Royal mused. 

Our sins are told — are told too well ; 

Rung are they on our quaking ears 
As if they rang our knell. 


Chap. XVII. 


A PICNIC.— 147 


And as these brands burn dull and dim. 

And send their beams scarce to my feet, 

And leave the room in shadows vast, 

That close around me meet, 

So doth our courage fade and die, 

When horrid shapes, held to our view, 

Do cluster round in fearful ranks, - 
With terrors ever new. 

And they who lift them to our gaze — 

Our gaze appalled — do they e’er show 
The way t’ escape their dreadful forms — 

A way that we can go ? 

' Will they e’er fill th’ unwritten page, 

And give our ears the welcome cry 
That to our souls blest light shall bring — 

High heaven’s sweet minstrelsy ? 

Lord Ethelbert, upon his Quest, 

His Sins did find, all unaware ; 

Did he not ride another quest 
To find Forgiveness fair ? 

Oh, ye who point to us one road. 

The road that leads to black Despair, 

Be sure ye point the other road, 

Where stands Forgiveness fair !” 

“ I think that is rather a reflection on the ministry,”* said Aunt 
Hepzibah, somewhat severely. 

“ It is and it isn’t,” I said. ” It seems to me to refer only to 
those who preach ‘ natural depravity ’ and the inevitable and 
eternal damnation of the wicked, that is, every one except ‘ the 
elect.' " 

” That reminds me of a sermon I heard last winter,” said 
Mr. Aa, ” delivered by a very young man. Rev. Pea Green by 
name. He preached from the text ‘ Why do the wicked live ?’ 
and spent three-quarters of an hour in not answering the question. 
He intimated, however, that really none but the elect had any 
right to live ; and as he did so, a satisfied and comfortable look 


I4S—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. Chap. XVII. 


swept over the greater part of the congregation. But he congratu- 
lated his hearers that, although the wicked did unfortunately live, 
yet there would happily come a day when they would be eternally 
damned: and he seemed to derive great consolation from the 
thought.” 

“ I should judge,” said M. Efff mildly, ” that the poem referred 
especially to those who are continually blaming us for our short- 
comings and holding them up to our view, but who give us no 
kindly advice how to lead better lives.” 

“ There is the moon !” said M. De, as she opportunely smiled 
down upon us through the trees. “We must soon be going, I am 
sorry to say ; but before we go, we must ask a story from the 
bride.” 

“ From me ?” said Jemima, in alarm, “ I can’t ” 

“ Oh, we know better,” said Mrs. Bee, “ for the children came 
home on Sunday with an account of a wonderful story you had 
told them in the woods.” 

“ But that was only a child’s story,” replied Jemima, “ and I 
don’t know any others.” 

“ Then give us a child’s story,” said M. De gallantly, “ and 
we will all be children and believe every word you say.” 

“ Well,” said she, looking with a troubled face up at the moon, 
“ if you insist ” 

“ We insist !” — in chorus. 

“ Then I’ll tell you the story of 


The Spirits of Fire. 

Long, long ago— millions of years ago — no one lived on the 
earth but the Spirits of Fire. They rode on the long tongues of 
flame that shot far up into the sky, and danced on the fiery waves 
of melted rock, and laughed when the white-hot spray dashed 
over them. 

There were two kinds of Spirits of Fire — the Red and the White. 
The Red Spirits were ruled by their King, and the White Spirits 
by their Queen : and the King of the Red Spirits fell in love with 
the Queen of the White Spirits, and she with him, and they were 
married. Then what rejoicing there was — for before that time the 


Chap, XVir. 


THE SPIRITS OF FIRE.—i4g 


Red and White Spirits had not always been very friendly. For 
the White Spirits had insisted on keeping the very hottest places 
for themselves — for wherever it was hottest, there the Spirits of Fire 
loved best to be — and had driven the Red Spirits out where it was 
colder ; so that there had been a great deal of quarreling between 
the two. But now that the King and Queen were married, every 
one hoped that the old differences would be settled, and all live 
together in harmony. And so they did for many years. 

In process of time two sons were born to them, and each of 
the boys was red on one side and white on the other, except that 
both of the arms of one were red, and both of the arms of the 
other white. So they were called Red Arms and White Arms; 
and the Red Spirits claimed that Red Arms belonged more to 
them, and the White Spirits that White Arms belonged more to 
them ; but the King and the Queen said that they both belonged 
to the whole nation. 

When they were pretty well grown up — that is, when they were 
about twenty thousand years old — there came one day a messenger 
from the Sun, riding on a shaft of light, who said that the good 
King and Queen must come home. For that was the way the 
Spirits of Fire died, or rather left the earth : the Sun, the great 
parent of the Earth and King Supreme of all the Spirits of Fire 
on it, sent his messengers for them when he wanted them, and 
they never came back again, but lived happily in his great 
Kingdom of White Light forever. 

So the King and Queen called all their subjects together, and 
bade them good-bye, and placed their crowns on the heads of 
their two sons, and appointed them joint rulers over the whole 
nation. Then they joyfully sat on the shaft of light with the Sun’s 
messenger ; and in an instant they were gone, and were seen no 
more. 

For awhile all went well. Red Arms and White Arms ruled 
lovingly together, and the nation was happy. But after a time 
both Red Arms and White Arms fell in love with a beautiful Red 
Spirit, whose hair was like a waving, red flame, and whose whole 
person glowed like a live coal, and whose lovely, smiling face 
shone with the softest golden light imaginable. Each tried to win* 
her heart and her hand, but she could not make up her mind. The 
matter became the talk of the entire nation, the Red Spirits saying 


ISO— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP, 


Chap. XVII. 


that she ought to marry Red Arms, while the White Spirits said 
that White Arms ought to have her; and so the nation was divided. 
Every day she was urged by one side or the other to make her 
choice ; until at last she discovered that she really loved Red Arms 
the best : and the very next time he came to urge her to marry 
him she said yes, and then Red Arms was happy indeed. But 
White Arms was in despair, and he vowed he would be revenged. 

The wedding was a grand affair. All the Red Spirits came ; 
and the oldest Red Spirit stood on a great billow of fire, and 
blessed the pair as they knelt before him, and pronounced them 
husband and wife. Then there was dancing on the sea of fire, 
and wild races on the flying tongues of flame, and every one was 
happy. But the White Spirits stayed away. 

Red Arms and his wife chose for their home a great island in 
the sea of fire, and there they established their court ; and the 
Red Spirits came and lived near them. But White Arms held his 
court in a white-hot valley on the other side of the earth, and there 
the White Spirits came. And day by day he brooded over his 
disappointment, until he was beside himself with rage. Then he 
determined that he would take the revenge, he had sworn to have ; 
and the White Spirits said they would help him. So they dug a hole 
clear through the earth to underneath Red Arms’ island, and put in 
the bottom of it a great quantity of the most explosive gas known, 
and filled up the hole on their side. Soon the heat of the earth 
made the gas expand, and it expanded more and more. Till at 
last, one day, when Red Arms had given a grand ball on his 
island, to which all the Red Spirits were invited, the gas blew up, 
and blew the island, with Red Arms and his wife and all the Red 
Spirits on it, away up into the air, and it never stopped until it 
was two hundred and fifty thousand miles away from the earth ; 
and there it became a little world all by itself, and commenced to 
revolve around the earth. 

Now, as you know. Space is intensely cold. And as time 
went on, this little world of the Red Spirits— which we will call, 
for the present, the Red World — began to shrink, and grow more 
and more solid, and smaller and smaller, in the cold. And as the 
Sun saw that his Spirits of Fire were unhappy in the increasing 
cold, he sent his messengers for them, one after the other, as he 
had done for the King and Queen, and brought them home to 


Chap. XV//. 


A P/CN/C.—131 


him. But Red Arms and his wife would not go, but preferred to 
remain alone upon their little world. 

More and more their Red World shrank in the cold of Space, 
until there was not even room for them to stand, for the Spirits of 
Fire were very large. So their bodies shrank into their Red 
World, and became a part of it, until there was nothing left of 
them but their heads, side by side, which became so cold that 
they couldn’t shrink any more. But still Red Arms and his wife 
were together. Then he turned his face away from the earth, for 
he couldn’t bear to look upon it ; but she kept hers toward it, to 
see what was going on — and there they are to this day. And we 
call them the Moon ; and the face we see in the moon is the face 
of Red Arms’ wife looking down upon us, glowing with that soft, 
golden light that makes the heart of every lover upon the earth 
happy — for she loves Red Arms.” 


“ And I guess that another bride is in love with her husband,” 
said Uncle Robert with a kindly laugh, in which the others joined. 

And sailing home by moonlight, the winding water-ways 
seemed fairy ways, where black, mysterious shadow gave place to 
illusive light : and the songs only ended at the Sorel wharf. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


An Excursion; Sorel, and the Pines. 

Again we join a party, and leaving Sorel in a steamer in the 
forenoon, sail down the St. Lawrence to the mouth of the St. 
Francis. Ascending that narrow stream, whose brown water 
resembles that from the South Jersey and Southern swamps and 
is suggestive of cedars and snakes, we wind through the level 
country, with farms, and here and there a village, on either hand. 
One of these villages is a seat of a lord of a manor, the manor 
comprising the adjacent country, and being one of the few, if not 
the only one, left in Canada. Here the farmers cannot own their 
farms, but pay rent therefor to the lord — must even have their 
grain ground at the lord’s mill and pay well for the enforced pri- 
vilege. And the lord is a woman ! 

At length, about noon, we reach the village of St. Francis, 
lying at the top of the high river bluff, the large stone Roman 
Catholic church overlooking the river, as do also two Saints Mili- 
tant, who stand in their respective niches in the wall and scowl, 
in belligerent attitudes, from under their helmets at us heretics. 

About a mile beyond St. Francis is a village of Abenekis, a 
civilized tribe of Indians. Thither we walk, and purchase sundry 
baskets and other unnecessaries from the chief s daughter, a 
remarkably pretty girl, whose clear olive skin, and beautifully 
rounded cheeks and chin, and large almond-shaped eyes, make 
us buy what* we wish we hadn’t when the glamor wears off the 
next day. 

Dinner on board our steamer, and we sit on deck forward and 
smoke and chat, till the lights of Sorel appear, vying with the 
moon — and we wish they were fifty miles further on. 

, Moonlight again and on the Richelieu. We — two — have 
rowed — or rather one has rowed, the other taken her chatty ease — 
up the river in the dusk of the evening, the banks growing dim- 
mer and blacker, and the water of a mysterious grey ; when we 


Chap. XVIIL 


SOREL.—133 


reach a turn in the still-flowing stream, and the round face of the 
moon looks out at us over the tops of the trees. 

The light craft headed down stream ; the oars shipped ; the 
cushions disposed for comfort of body, for comfort of mind, for 
comfort of talk, and for comfort of quiet, and we drift back down 
the silent river. The trees on the banks pass shadowy by ; the 
little wisps of mist begin to rise from the water’s breast ; the black 
hulls of anchored steamers loom up in the deceptive light ; the 
lights of the town come into view, are here by us, are behind us, 
and we float out upon the bosom of the brcfed St. Lawrence. The 
gentle swell sways us to and fro ; the fires of the aurora rise from 
north and south, and meet in the zenith in a silent clash of shoot^ 
ing, ghostly flame; the river banks grow dim and indistinct, 
and we two seem floating out at sea, away from a work-a-day 
world. But one of us finds that it is a decidedly work-a-day 
world, before the lights of Sorel again appear, against wind and 
tide. 

A day or two after, invitations to a funeral were sent to Uncle 
Robert and me — women here never attend funerals. They were 
printed on a double sheet of letter-paper with broad, black edges, 
at the top of the page being a wood-cut of a very small weeping 
willow trying to droop over an urn standing upon a square pedestal, 
and not quite succeeding, the pedestal and urn being too high ; 
and they read thus : 

“Sir : 

You are requested to attend the funeral of the late Blank Blank, 
on Saturday, the blankth instant, at 4 o’clock p. m. 

The funeral cortege will leave his late residence, comer Blank and 
Blank Streets, for Christ Church, and thence to the place of interment.” 

In the house, to which w'e first went, a piece of crape with 
flowing ends was fastened around the hat of each by some women 
in attendance, when we repaired to the English Church, whither 
the coffin had already been carried, and where the post mortem 
laudation, like charity, was made to cover a (probable) multitude 
of sins. Thence, after service, we all marched to the grave two 
by two, the old minister in his white robe, over which was an 
enormous crape band with a still more enormous shoulder-knot. 


IS4—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. Ckap. XVIII. 


leading the procession, followed by the pall bearers, likewise with 
scarfs and knots, carrying the coffin. There we found a great 
crowd of urchins of both sexes, through which we pushed our 
way ; and the but lately animated dust was made a part of the 
dust under our feet. As we turned to go, a woman was pointed 
out to us who was the village layer-out-of-the-dead. What a link 
is she between them and the living — a hyphen between Time and 
Eternity. 

The time of our departure upon our further travels arriving — 
which means that Aunt Hepzibah had exhausted the resources of 
the place — we held a council of war, to which were bidden the 
Aas, the Bees and the Gees, as representing the foreign contingent, 
and the Des and the Efffs, as representing the native. The prin- 
cipal impression left upon my mind by this council was the extreme 
diversity of opinion entertained and expressed, prominent among 
which was Aunt Hepzibah’s. She had evidently made up her 
mind in the privacy of its own recesses, and it seemed to me the 
conclave was called, not so much for her to receive, as to gener- 
ously impart information : its ostensible object was, of course, 
to repay in some measure the hospitalities we had received 
from the invited. The plan at last agreed upon was that we 
should leave upon the afternoon of the day after the morrow, 
by the steamer, for Chambly; thence to Montreal by rail, and 
thence as fancy and time should dictate. This happily settled, 
refreshments were in order, during which Uncle Robert (inno- 
cently, I must believe) prepared and exploded a mine, to his own 
destruction. 

The ices stage having been reached, he was observed drawing 
a series of little o’s with pencil upon a piece of paper on his knee, 
thus : 


ooooooooo 

“ Can you,” said he to Mrs. Gee at his side, during a lull in 
the chatter, “ can you make those nine o’s into a command to 
depart, by the addition of five straight lines ? ” 

Mrs. Gee would try, and asked M. Efff to help her. Their 
united wisdom was, however, found unavailing, and gradually the 
whole company was drawn to the task, but to no success. 


Chap. XVII L 


SOREL.—153 


“ It’s very simple,” said Uncle Robert, “ thus : ” and he drew, 
qoodqodqo 

We all looked — and pleased inquiry gradually stiffened into 
cold rigidity on the faces of our guests, and horrified apprehension 
on ours. In the midst of a dead silence, the Professor, who had 
been peering at the hieroglyph through his spectacles, exclaimed 
innocently, 

“ Why it reads ‘ Good God go ! ’ ” 
****** 

I will draw a kindly veil over the scene which followed, 
both during and after the departure of our guests. If a cipher 
can ever be less than a cipher. Uncle Robert was that quantity 
for a week. 

The next afternoon I missed Jemima (somehow or other I 
always do miss her when she is not in sight) and thinking she 
might have gone to the pines, I walked thither. The little town 
was dormant in the summer heat, which, as I reached the stubbly 
fields, rose quivering toward the cloudless sky. From shady 
nooks within the scattered trees, the sleepy twitter of the birds fell 
on the silent air, while all around the insect hum droned drowsily 
beneath the burning light. From grassy ambush by the winding 
path, the grasshoppers sprang on their whirring wings, and sailed 
away to some more distant blade. The nearing pines slept in 
their sombre green, while far-off crows flapped cawing to their 
roosts, and all the stretch of field and grove and forest line was 
faintly silvered by the summer haze which clad the horizon’s verge 
in shining mists of fairyland. 

As I neared our favorite spot beneath the spreading branches 
of a grand old pine, whose roots were deeply covered with the fallen 
brown needles of many a year long gone, I heard Jemima’s voice 
in dreamy singing of a song whose music seemed almost a revery 
in sound. As I came near unobserved, I saw her lying in the 
grace of happy solitude, her head upon her pretty, clasped 
hands against a carpeted root of the old pine, and gazing at the 
flecks of blue through the interlacing boughs. And as she lay she 
sang: 


H 


— 1 

J ^ ,, ■■■ 


qzrf 

y 


^ 1 


] ^ 




^ 1 r 

cJ 




— 



I love my Love when the ro - ses bloom : 



W- 




when the har - vests come: 



I love my Love when the har - vests go : 



- 



p-— i 

- 





w ^ 



r’j 


.T 

I 

love 

my 

Love when earth’s white with 

snow. 




Come cloud, come sun, come heat, come cold. 



I’ll love my Love till Time grows old; 


V 



And when Time grows old and when Time shall die, , 



Chap. XVIII. 


THE PINES.— 137 


“ Will you ?” I said. 

She started up. “ Oh, how you frightened me ! You shouldn’t 
come stealing into a lady’s bower, scaring away all her lovely 
guests!” 

“ I didn’t see them fly,” I said. 

” No, how could you ?” she replied. “ They came to smile and 
j laugh for my eyes and ears alone, not for the common herd ” — 

1 with a roguish sparkle in her blue-grey eyes. “ And oh, the lovely 
I things they said ! And as I lay there on my back, they sat on the 
j branches — they are the chairs you know — and smiled into my 
very heart, and told me everything they found there. And then 
they sang ” 

j “ But it was you who sang,” I interrupted. 

I “ Of course they used my voice, dear things, for they wanted 

the trees and birds and squirrels to know how happy we were, and 

they could only sing to my ears. So I sang ” 

The song they taught you ?” 

“ The song they taught me, and the music and the words ” 

“ They taught you too ?” 

“ They taught me too, came right out of my heart, where they 
had put them, and soared and soared until they sounded at the 
gates of heaven.” 

“ From earth to heaven,” I said, " and back again to earth, 
to sound upon the portals of my heart, and enter in. Darling, do 
you really love as you sang .? ” 

“John,” she said, releasing herself from my arms, and looking 
at me steadily, yet speaking quietly, “John, you have my heart, 
my very soul. Take them with you to those gates of heaven.” 

“ Where is heaven, John ? ” she asked, a little after. 

“ Where do you think ? ” 

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve bothered my head dread- 
fully, trying to imagine, but I never can imagine. Of course it 
can’t have gates of pearl ’! 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“Well, of course I know, but it doesn’t seem likely, as 
it isn’t a place, a real place, a solid place, I mean.” 

“Again how do you know .? ” 

“ Well, again I don’t know ; but from what the. ministers say 
the Bible means, I should think it was a kind of state, a state of 


138 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chiip. XVIII 


being, where we were, but didn’t really exist — very happy, of 
course, but not really living, as we mean living here. Oh, I can’t 
explain, but you know what I mean, dear.” 

“I think that your idea of heaven,” I replied, “is that of 
most people — as you say, a state, not an actual being, or, if a 
being, an etherealized one — almost a misty, vapory one, as if 
we were to be essences, not tangible beings. Now mine is different. 
I don’t attempt to defend it, but this can be said in its defense, 
that no one knows : that heaven is the place of greatest happiness 
to every denizen : that each person hoping to reach that place, 
has the right to imagine what his greatest happiness would be, 
and a place where that happiness will be found is to him heaven. 
Now what grander thought than that heaven is the vast globe 
which is the gravital centre of all planets, suns and systems — of 
the created universe. That thither our souls, when fitted for its 
sinless life, fly — how we know not, nor can even guess. That 
there, 7naterialized, with every passion freed from lust, with every 
virtue cleansed of stain, we lead a life best fitted for our mortal 
selves, where every talent, of whatever grade, shall find its most 
supreme development. There art shall soar on nobler wings : 
there written words acquire a subtler, higher sense : there music 
lift the soul on harmony, till heaven itself shall seem but dull and 
cold. There love shall so expand and grow, that all our fellows 
shall be folded in its arms — yet but our own shall nestle in our 
hearts. There sweet green fields shall tempt the wandering feet, 
and dusky shade, by running brooks, those wearied, for the time, 
by labor well-beloved. There cities raise their domes and towers, 
and schools abound where they who lack may learn. There well 
may be the Great White Throne, and He who sits thereon. 
Supreme, shall smile upon His children ; hearten every toiler 
toward a higher goal, and guide the maze of worlds that whirl 
through space around that Throne.” 

“ Oh John,” she said, while heaven’s own light shone in her 
child-pure eyes, ” let us always journey. toward that World.” 

” Darling,” I answered, ” you shall lead, I will try to follow.” 


I 


I 


CHAPTER XIX. 

I Onward, and a Discussion. 

I “All was bustle and confusion.” The remark is trite, but in our 
case, upon the last night of our stay in Sorel, was true; and a 
combination of bugs and Professor was the cause : and the com- 
! bination was almost a conglomeration. 

i The Professor had retired early, and we were all in the parlor, 
j discussing the morrow’s flitting, when a sound of agitated move- 
ment of the feet came from the region of the ceiling which was 
underneath his room. At first but casual attention was paid to the 
phenomenon, until it became so obtrusive as to demand investi- 
; gation from the most disinterested hearer — and we were naturally 
' interested. Aunt Eunice noticed the attentive cast of our counte- 
j nances, and demanded the cause, which being explained, she 
' instantly implored us, in a voice that was quite audible — indicating 
unusual stress for her — to investigate said cause, and herself led 
i the way, we following. Arriving at the Professor’s door, the 
movement within was such as would have led any one to believe 
that he was in mortal, yet vocally silent, conflict with an assassin : 
whereupon we (men) burst into the room, the door happening to 
be unlocked, and what a sight met our astonished gaze ! 

There was the Professor, lightly attired, careering around, and 
wildly, yet with strange caution, grasping at his back underneath 
his only garment. We instantly surrounded him, and demanded 
the reason of his career. In tones of agony, broken by violent 
twitches and starts, he explained that he had been giving several 

(which, being interpreted, meaneth, They-who- 

bite-for-all-they-are-worth) an airing upon his hand, preparatory 
to bottling them up for the night; when noticing something inter- 
esting — “ Oh most interesting, I assure you gentlemen ” — in their 
movements, he bent down to examine said movements more closely, 
when they, with the activity characteristic of their bugships — “Ah, 
they are so beautifully quick ” — scattered into his bushy beard, 
and made their way thence to his neck and so to his back, feeding 


i6o—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XIX. 


at every quarter inch as they went upon the all-too-succulent flesh, | 
and were now disporting themselves in a pasture of unwonted ex- ; 
tent and juiciness. I asked, in wonder, why he had not taken off 
the hindering garment ? ^ ; 

“Ah, gentlemen,” he replied, “I might drag some of them i 
off with it, and so lose them ! ” 

So we commenced a roll of said garment, holding it, at his 
earnest solicitation, well away from his back and the disporting bugs, 
which were still, to judge from his contortions, biting fiercely, and 
rolled it well up to his neck, displaying Their Bugginesses and 
their sanguinary work, which last consisted of long lines of bites, ' 
at beautifully regular intervals, traversing his back in all direc- 
tions. Their Bugginesses were duly and carefully scraped off on 
a piece of paper, each taking a last and parting dig as he went, , 
and deposited in their bottle. 

Brown paper and vinegar were now deemed in order ; and 
here Aunt Eunice’s kindness of heart displayed itself, for she 
insisted upon soaking the one in the other with her own fair hands, 
and then sent the plaster, sweetened with consolatory messages, to 
his room. 

There seemed to be not much doubt that Aunt Eunice was 
becoming interested in entomological pursuits. As for the Pro- 
fessor, his gratitude was touching, as with tears in his eyes he 
accepted the offering. All the next day he smelt like a vinegar 
factory. 

The “Good God Go” episode having been explained and 
apologized away, Mr. and Mrs. Aa and M. and Mme. Efff announced 
their intention of accompanying us up the Richelieu to Chambly, 
and thence to Montreal, which intention was hailed by us joyfully. 
Wherefore, after much handshaking by the men and kissing by 
the women (except Aunt Hepzibah), and the expression of many 
hopes that we should all meet again (which hopes we knew would 
never be realized), we left the other of our kind entertainers on the 
wharf, and at a quarter to six started in the steamer Chambly for 
Chambly, at the head of navigation up the Richelieu, the river 
taking the name of the Chambly in its upper (that is, southern) • 
part. On the way we passed the bateaux crawling up the stream 
with the wind, the great square-prowed hulls hardly making a 
ripple in the water, while the one huge square-sail depending from 


Chap. XIX. 


ONWARD.— i6i 


the short, thick mast, was barely filled by the .lazy breeze, in full 
accord with which, both the boats and their scanty crews seemed 
loth to move. We also passed other bateaux moored to the banks, 
waiting for a change in the wind, for their destination was down 
stream, and they were unable to sail except before the wind. 
Hence, it is said, bateaux sometimes take weeks for the journey 
from, for instance, Montreal to Quebec, and especially from 
Quebec to Montreal, for then they have no current to help them. 

On either bank the low, square houses of the habitans, with 
their roofs sloping in a gentle curve from the central point to the 
heavy eaves, stood each on its little green farm, and reminded us 
of one we had visited while driving over the level country a day 
or two before, where we saw a great pile of huge loaves of bread 
lying on the top of what appeared to be an out- or summer- 
kitchen, apparently to cool — for what other reason we could not 
conceive. 

Touching at St. Roche, we reached St. Tours about dark, 
passing through the great stone locks at the dam in the deepening 
dusk, when, having touched at St. Denis, we moored at St. Mark 
' (what a multitude of saints !) for the night, the channel being too 
narrow and tortuous to make night travel safe. 

After supper had been cleared away, for it was served in the 
main cabin, the boat’s company gathered around the stove, for the 
night was damp and chilly, and cards, chat and literature soon 
occupied their several attentions. But not all were so occupied ; 
for I observed Bolus bring a heavy shawl to Victorine, when the 
two departed into outer darkness, where I doubt if there was 
wailing and gnashing of teeth. We had for some time past 
I observed in them love’s middle-aged dream, which was beneficent, 

I in that they no longer squabbled (in fact not since we left Boston), 
I but somewhat inconvenient, in that their memories, except as to 
' each other’s whereabouts, were remarkably deficient. Likewise 
did not another couple aggregate around the stove, but segregated 
themselves to a corner of the cabin, so far as lay in their power 
dim and distant, where he could be observed, and sometimes 
faintly heard, breathing entomological nothings into her trump- 
eted ear. This somewhat-past-middle-aged dream we had also 
observed, and it was likewise beneficent, in that but one was 
required to amuse Aunt Eunice’s ear-trumpet, and but one to listen 


12 


i 62 —A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XIX. 


to bug-weighed dissertations. Oh Cupid, what a lad thou art ! 
Wielder of the destinies, ofttimes, of nations, communities and 
men, sometimes for weal, more times for woe, here thou hast put 
thy little finger into our traveling pie, not to stir up into fateful 
jumble its well-ordered ingredients, but that, from the perforation, 
its sweets may exude upon the passing world ; and not only upon 
them, but, flowing upon, may percolate through our crust, to the 
added sweetness of each of the aforesaid ingredients of our pie. 

As Jemima and I settled ourselves to our books, a man near 
us, whose grave and reserved demeanor and smooth black clothes 
of generous cut seemed to indicate the professor, said to his com- 
panion, as he hung his eye-glasses over his right ear and laid his 
open book face downward on his knee, “Yes, it is a somewhat 
vexed question, and I cannot determine how far our alter ego, our 
mental self, can detach itself from our physical, there are so many 
arguments pro and con, so many circumstances which would seem 
to indicate the power, and so many which would seem to contra- 
dict it. This incident that you have just shown me would seem to 
indicate it.’’ 

“ It undoubtedly does,” said his companion, a man of like 
professional aspect, and whose strong countenance was deeply 
marked with lines of thought, “ and another that I call to mind, adds 
to its testimony. This is the story, taken from the police records 
of Brooklyn : Two farmers, father and son, living in the interior of 
Long Island, were in the habit of bringing produce from their farm to 
the Brooklyn market, and in order to have it at their stand early in 
the morning, left the farm about midnight. A portion of the road 
traversed a deep, lonely hollow, heavily shaded by trees. One 
night the son started out alone with the wagon, carrying with him 
a considerable sum of money for purchases in the city. The 
father, who was prevented from accompanying him by illness, was 
much worried at the thought of his son’s lonely drive, and went to 
bed and to sleep in that frame of mind. About three o’clock he 
awoke in a great fright, and told his wife that he had dreamed he 
had seen his son assaulted by two men in that hollow, dragged 
from his seat, beaten over the head with a club, robbed, and left 
for dead ; and that, by the flash of a dark lantern carried by one 
of the men, he had distinctly seen the face of the other. The wife 
laughed at the dream, ascribing it to his fears, and advised him to 


Chap. XIX. 


A DISCUSSION— 163 


go to sleep again, which he finally did. Again he awoke, declar- 
ing that he had seen his son lying dead in the road by the wagon, 
from which the horses had been taken. It spite of his wife’s pro- 
tests he arose, harnessed a horse, procured a neighbor, and drove 
to the hollow ; and there they found the son and the wagon exactly 
in the position he had seen in his dream. They drove on to the 
city, and put the case into the hands of the police, who, from the 
accurate description given by the father of the man whose face he 
had seen by the flash of the lantern in his dream, succeeded at 
last in arresting one of the murderers, who confessed, implicating 
his companion, and both were tried, convicted and hung. Now 
did not that father’s mental self, freed by sleep from the shackels 
of the physical, follow his son, and actually witness the murder ?” 

“ But it did not remain, apparently, at the scene,” said the first. 

“True,” answered his companion, “but for this reason. Its 
fright and anguish were communicated, how it is impossible, of 
course, to say, to the physical, creating such a disturbance of the 
nerve centres, that awakening was the consequence, when — again 
how we cannot say — the mental was instantly recalled to the aid 
of the physical (without which it, the physical, would have been 
powerless), and so perforce left the scene, to return again, how- 
ever, when again freed from the physical by sleep.” 

“ It is strange, very strange,” said the first, “ and perhaps 
this line of thought which is, I will confess, rather new to me, may 
serve to explain the following incident — dream, vision, whatever 
you may call it — which happened to my sister. Our brother was 
lying ill at the family homestead, which is, as you know, in Utica, 
while she was at her home in Orange, New Jersey ; and she knew 
of his illness, and was naturally anxious. I was with him, and 
had written her that I would telegraph her should his symptoms 
become alarming. But the end was nearer than we had expected; 
and before a telegram could reach her he died, about eleven 
o’clock at night. That same night, about midnight, she was 
awakened by what seemed a pressure of her hand, and a voice 
saying ‘ good-bye.’ She looked to see if her husband was awake, 
but finding him asleep, concluded that it was all the effect of her 
imagination, and fell asleep again, when she dreamed that she 
was in our brother’s room at the homestead, and saw him laid out, 
dead, upon his bed. She awoke in a fright and, awakening her 


i 64 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XIX. 


husband, told him of the pressure of the hand, the voice and the 
dream, saying that she believed her brother was dead. The next 
morning my telegram announcing his death reached her. When 
she came on to the funeral, she asked me minutely as to his situa- 
tion upon the bed, and then told me the particulars of her dream, 
which accorded in every detail with his position after he had been 
laid out, even to the fact that they had been obliged to use two 
sheets to cover him, he having been very tall.” 

“ Is not that a case directly in point 1" said his companion. 

“ If you will pardon me, gentlemen,” interrupted a man sitting 
near, who had, like myself, been listening to the conversation 
intently, ” I can mention an hallucination to which I was subject 
during a severe illness some years ago, and which, while not a 
dream, may illustrate what may be another phase of the subject 
you are discussing — and I hope you will pardon me for listening, 
but I was so much interested that I could not help it.” 

“ Certainly, sir,” said the first man, with an encouraging smile. 

“ We should be glad to hear the incident you mention,” said 
the second. 

“Well,” said the third, ” it was this. I was at the time very ill 
with typhoid-malaria — I think that is what the doctors called it — and 
had become what is sometimes termed flighty — not delirious. I 
got the notion that I was someone else, or rather that someone 
else was lying beside me, very ill indeed and in a great deal of 
pain and burning up with fever. I felt a great compassion for him ; 
pitied him by word and caress — caressing myself meantime — and 
thought it my duty to see that he took his medicine regularly, 
watching the clock on the mantel, and asking the attendant to 
administer it when the hour had nearly arrived. Then, taking it 
myself, I would lie back on my pillow, telling the imaginary one 
to lie down now, and that perhaps he would be better soon. Now 
may not that have been my stronger mental self watching over 
my weaker physical self— almost freed, perhaps, from the physical 
by the inroads of the disease and the near presence of death ? — 
for I almost died.” 

” Speaking of physical and mental selves,” said a man who 
had been apparently buried in a yellow-covered volume, “how, 
can you explain the fact that sometimes my mind wakes up before 
my body ; that for a time which seems to me an age, and yet 


Chap. XIX. 


A DISCUSSION.— i6s 


which is probably but an instant or two, I am perfectly conscious 
of everything around me; can hear and fully enter into, mentally, 
any conversation ; can look at the clock near my bed, through my 
half-closed eyelids, and note the time ; in short, am perfectly 
awake, and yet cannot move hand or foot ? ” 

“A trance,” said one. 

” No, not a trance,” replied he, “for I see no visions, only 
realities.” 

“ Probably a nightmare,” said another. 

“ I thought that explanation would be given,” he said, “ for 
that name or epithet is generally applied to all ‘ visions of the 
head upon the bed ’ which cannot be understood. No, it is not 
that, for it is no dream ; it is of fact, as I said. Perhaps my mental 
self wants to wake up — is awake — before my physical can be 
aroused.” V 

“ How do you wake yourself, sir ?” said an elderly woman 
near him. 

“ The struggle is really terrible, madam,” he replied. “ I 
strain every nerve to move, but for a long time, apparently, to no 
purpose; which invariably gives me the frightened, desperate 
sensation a man would naturally experience who expected to be 
able to move, but found he could not. At last I succeed in 
moving some muscle, when I awake — that is, am able to move — 
suddenly, but perfectly exhausted.” 

“Your experience is almost similar to mine, sir,” said a short, 
fat man. “ You can see that I haven’t very much breathing 

space ” smiling genially upon the company, and pointing to his 

neck. “Well, sometimes while asleep, I fall into positions which 
would, if not changed, result in strangulation. I awake — that is, 
become conscious that I bught to awake — and then the struggle to 
awake sufficiently to change my position is, as you very well said, 
sir ’’—turning to the last speaker — “really dreadful. Now do you 
suppose that what you call my mental self has anything to do with 
it — that is with waking me up to prevent strangulation ? ” 

“ It certainly seems so,” he replied. 

“ Decidedly so, I should judge,” said the friend of the man 
with the eye-glasses. “ It would seem to me that the mental self, 
being more easily awakened by disturbance of the nerve centres, 
wakes first, and then struggles to arouse the physical.” 


/66—A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XIX. 


“You maybe right, gentlemen,” said the fat man, “ for some- 
times it seems to me as if I could not wake myself up — I feel my- 
self sinking back into unconsciousness — and then a sort of despair 
comes over me, and I struggle desperately, and at length awake 
perfectly exhausted, like our friend here.” 

“ These incidents are indeed singular,” said the first speaker, 
“ and may possibly, though I hardly think probably, be phases of 
our subject. But this I think we can safely say : that as the 
connection between the mind and the body it controls is as yet 
unascertained, any excursions into that terra incognita should not 
be characterized as useless, although they may lead to no immediate 
and definite results. Perhaps the strength of some future pioneer, 
husbanded by the use of the path his unsuccessful predecessor has 
laid out, may serve to push beyond that predecessor’s stopping 
point, and reach the goal.” 

This speech, and the incidents related, provoked considerable 
discussion among the little group that had gradually formed 
around the speakers, no two persons evincing precisely the same 
opinion on the subject, and each one apparently arguing himself 
more firmly into his own, in the effort to convince others. 

Discussion languishing, a tale of adventure, as a hope of ex- 
citement, was called for ; and no one else responding, I related 
the following : 

“ In the winter of ’ 74 , that very cold winter, the newspapers 
reported an immensely high ice-mound at the foot of Niagara 
Falls, and a great accumulation of ice in the river below ; and 
concluding to run up to look at it, my travel was well rewarded. 
At the foot of the American Fall, the ice-mound, formed by the 
falling spray, had risen to within a few feet of the top of the Fall, 
looking like the quarter section of an enormous snow-ball. 
Ascending to the top, a superb sight presented itself. Before 
my face — but a few feet away — the mass of water fell in long, 
straight, rope-like lines, and disappeared with an awful roar in 
the dark abyss between the precipice Qf ice and the precipice of 
rock. 

“ Descending, I ascended to the level of the Fall, and crossed 
over to Goat Island, the trees upon which were covered with ice to 
the depth of several inches, seeming as if they had been cut out 
of marble, or were the ghosts of dead trees. 


Chap, XIX. 


A DISCUSSION.— 167 


“ Keeping on, I went out by the foot-bridge to Terrapin Rock, 
where the old tower used to stand. When I reached there I 
observed that a quantity of ice covered with snow had by some 
means become fixed upon the projecting rocks on the edge of the 
Horseshoe Fall beyond the rock where I stood, forming a bridge 
on the extreme edge of the Fall, about one hundred feet long by 
perhaps ten or fifteen feet wide. Instantly the desire to go upon 
this bridge and look over the Fall seized me. I dug out a stone 
from the snow, as heavy as I could lift, and, stepping out as far as 
I dared, threw it with all my force upon the bridge, which stood 
firm, the stone sticking fast in the snow. Then I ran back to the 
island and broke off a good stout staff, and, coming back to Terra- 
pin Rock, commenced the rather trying journey. The snow which 
covered the ice was itself covered with a thin coating of ice, which 
broke beneath my feet, thus giving me a good foothold, and as to 
my head I was sure of that, as I had thoroughly tested its anti-dizzi- 
ness the preceding summer on shipboard and among the Swiss 
glaciers and precipices. Prodding my staff heavily into the snow 
before me to try the way, I walked out until I had reached about 
the middle of my ice-bridge, and then stopped to look. The sight 
was the grandest and the most awe-inspiring I havp ever beheld. 
As I looked up the river the curve of the oncoming water seemed 
almost as high as my head, and, steadying my eye upon some float- 
ing particle, the whole mass seemed coming down upon me with 
an irresistible power that must inevitably carry me over the brink 
and into eternity ; but, with a swift, hissing rush, it swept under 
me, leaped out, and, with a horrible roar, plunged into the awful 
chasm, whence huge clouds of spray, like the smoke of its torment, 
ascending, swept back and over me. 

“ Steadying myself by my staff, I sank quietly upon my knees, 
then stretched myself flat upon my stomach, and looked down 
over the Fall. You can imagine what I saw. When the spray 
would clear away, the water, rushing so swiftly as to appear to be 
drawn into lines and furrows, and springing out under my very 
face, could be seen to fall, at first a solid, greenish mass, then 
broken into foam, into a chaos which the eyes could not penetrate. 
I could feel my bridge trembling with the rush, and realizing that 
any moment might see it and me following the descending flood, 
I arose, took one look up and down — a look to last for a lifetime— 


i68— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XIX. 


and retraced my steps. As I passed the rock I had thrown on the 
bridge, I could not resist the temptation of dislodging it and seeing 
it whirl, away over the liquid precipice.” 

This incident provoked considerable discussion, the majority 
maintaining that it was a foolhardy risk of one’s life, while the 
small minority, of which I was, ot course, one, affirmed that where 
a man had no one dependent upon him, he had a perfect right to 
risk his life in the accomplishment of any worthy object, and the 
opportunity to stand where no one had, perhaps, ever stood before, 
and might never again, and the sight to be obtained from that 
point of vantage, were by us deemed worthy. 

“Worthy fiddlesticks! ” I heard an old lady mutter, looking 
at her son, who had been a most interested listener and one of the 
minority. 

From this the conversation gradually drifted into a discussion 
as to whether Fate or Providence rules the incidents in men’s lives, 
and so the lives themselves. 

“I will tell you about as narrow an escape as I ever had from 
probable shipwreck and possible death, if you don’t mind, ladies 
and gentlemen,” said a man who seemed to exhale, but in a 
modest, imperceptible sort of way, the odor of tar and wind-swept 
brine, “and you can draw your own conclusions.” 

Reassured that we would mind if he didn’t, he began : 

“ We had sailed from New York, bound for Marseilles ; and 
arriving at the Straits, found ourselves becalmed. All that day 
we drifted in the currents setting down the African coast ; and 
when night came, a heavy fog settled down. The watch was set 
and the fog-horn started and I turned in. About midnight the first 
mate woke me up, and reported a large three-master bearing down 
upon us. I tumbled up on deck in a hurry, and sure enough there 
she was, drifting toward us broadside, her light looking like a 
great, misty eye, and she like a phantom of death ; for the con- 
verging currents were running fast enough to make her stave in 
our bulwarks if she struck us, and perhaps send us to the bottom. 
I hailed her, and both crews were set to work getting out fenders 
and spare spars and coils of rope to break the shock ; and her 
helm was put hard up, and ours jammed hard down, and the sails 
set to catch whatever breeze might come along. Then we had to 
stand still and wait : and I tell you, messmates, though it wasn’t 


Chap. XIX. 


A DISCUSSION.— i6g 


long, it seemed to me the longest wait I ever had. It seemed to 
me as if she was fate, and we, tied hand and foot, couldn’t move to 
escape. Down she came ; and her eye grew bigger and brighter, 
and her sails and spars loomed up sharper and more distinct, until 
at last we could almost touch her with a boat-hook. When, just 
as we were beginning to think of the boats, a handful of wind 
caught us, and we both sheered off into the night — and I never 
was so glad to see the last of any craft in my life.” 

As he finished, a young American, whose knickerbockers 
were evidently worn for use and not for show, spoke up 
quickly. 

“Before you draw your conclusions, let me add a word, and 
then we can discuss both incidents together, for they are in a 
manner parallel.” 

Agreement by the company. 

“ I was stopping for a few days at Bex, a little town in the 
Rhone valley above the Lake of Geneva, and determined to 
attempt the ascent of the Dent de Morcles without a guide, some- 
what against the advice of the people at the hotel. So I started 
out one day — alone, as I couldn’t get any one to go with me — and 
reached the highest chalet — and I may say the largest aggregation 
of fleas I have ever encountered — that evening. 

“As I sat on a one-legged milking-stool on the earthen floor on 
one side of the fire, eating bread and milk out of a wooden bowl 
with a wooden spoon, and trying not to choke in the smoke that 
was browning the cheeses on the rafters overhead, I endeavored 
to get some information as to the way from the three men — a 
father and two sons — who occupied the other sides of the fire — 
the daughter, poor girl, was left to herself in a cold corner — 
but they either could not or would not— could not, I think— give 
me any, but spent the time in asking questions about America, 
and whether we spoke Spanish where I lived, and if I had ever 
met their cousin Jean who had gone there some years before, 
wondering somewhat that I had not. When bedtime came, they 
gave me the choice between a corner of their own (and only) bed- 
room and the haymow. I chose the latter ; and there it was that 
the fleas claimed me for their own, and reveled over me all night. 

“ The next morning I started early, and about noon, with some 
little difficulty but without serious accident, thanks to my old 


J 70 —A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XIX. 


alpenstock, reached the top” — with a little touch of modest pride. 
“ On the way down, which was somewhat more difficult ” 

“Unlike the broad way which leadeth unto destruction,” said 
(the nose of) a sanctimonious individual in black and chin- 
whiskers. 

“ Unlike ‘ the broad way that leadeth to destruction,’ which is, 
I believe, the correct reading,” repeated the young man with polite 
scorn, turning his back upon the intruder; “on the way down, 
which was somewhat more difficult ” 

“ Unlike the broad way which leadeth unto destruction,” 
repeated the catapult of religion. 

“ I found myself” — without the slightest notice of the cata- 
pult — “ on the edge of a precipice which seemed to bar further 
progress, for it appeared to hem me in on every side — everywhere 
to the right, to the left, before me was, apparently, the sheer fall, 
and back of me the steep side of the mountain down which I had 
partly slidden, partly climbed. I dug my alpenstock into a cleft of 
the rock and, clinging to it, stopped to reconnoitre. As I looked, 
a vast, grey mass slowly rose up the precipitous wall, and the head 
of the cloud — the destroyer — appeared. For all day in the valley 
far below, a storm had raged, the faint roll of its thunder reaching 
my ears through the bright sunlight, and the jagged tongues of the 
lightning fascinating me as I watched them shooting from cloud- 
top to cloud-top, like fiery snakes at play. But now the storm had 
cleared, and the clouds, rolling up the mountain’s side, were upon 
me, to envelope me in their chilling folds from which there was, of 
course, no escape. For you all probably know” — looking around 
with modest deference — “ that when the cloud catches a man at a 
high altitude'in a dangerous situation, the only thing to do is to sit 
still and wait until it rolls farther up and releases him, for it is 
impossible to see clearly ten steps ahead. And if one has to wait 
all night, with the temperature below the freezing point, clinging 
to an alpenstock to prevent oneself from rolling down, the situa- 
tion is, to say the least, highly unpleasant. As I sat there wonder- 
ing whether I or the cloud would hold out longest, I will confess 
that I sent up a petition for help to a Power stronger than I.” 

“I rejoice, young man, that the spirit — ” commenced the 
catapult ; but the black looks of the company squelched him, and 
the speaker went on. 


Chap. XIX. 


A DISCUSSION.— 171 


“ I had no sooner done so — and I am speaking the literal 
truth — than a sharp wind came down the mountain from behind 
my back, and in a moment had cut a lane — I say advisedly a lane 
— through the dense mist, and at its foot, some hundreds of feet 
below, I saw a cow-path which I had not noticed before the cloud 
closed in, and the way to it down tJ^at lane was clear of precipice. 
I need not say that I lost no time in availing myself of the — natural 
or supernatural ? — help, and was soon at the cow-path, when the 
cloud closed in once more, and did not lift the balance of the day. 
But the path led me safely down.” 

“ The hand of Providence, I cannot doubt,” said the gentle- 
man with the eye-glasses on his ear. 

“ More probably a gust of wind which would have blown 
without the aid of the petition,” said a self-centred looking man, 
somewhat superciliously. 

“That I cannot tell, sir,” rejoined the American, “but this I 
know ; that the petition went, and the gust of wind came, and I 
was, from my soul, thankful.” 

Again discussion raged — mildly — when a man with a look of 
honest doubt upon his face, said, “ Presupposing that a Providence 
takes a hand in our affairs, in what a quandary — and I say it rev- 
erently — He must be placed, to judge whose petition to answer. 
Two men— of equal worth is His eyes, we will assume— pray, the 
one that upon the morrow it may rain, the other that it may not. 
Now, all things being equal, whose petition shall He grant ? And 
grant one He must; for it either will not rain, or it will rain.” ' 

“Then why pray at all?” said the self-centred man, “for 
there must always be counter petitions of equal value as to merit 
and need.” 

“ Perhaps for this reason, if for no other,” said the friend of 
the man with the unused eye-glasses, “ that the mere lifting of the 
soul to a strength greater than his, strengthens the petitioner. 
For we all naturally turn to a stronger for help; and the mere 
thought that there is One able to help, and who may help if it 
seems best to Him, may so buoy the soul with the hope born of 
that thought, that that very hope shall so strengthen the man, that 
he finds himself able to do that which before he could not.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


Ottawa. 

About seven in the morning Chambly, a little town lying on a 
shallow, lake-like widening of the river, comes in sight, as does 
also the old stone fort, built by Capt. Jacques de Chambly in 1665, 
a relic of a by-gone, war-filled time, whose high walls are crumb- 
ling to the earth from whence their stones were taken, the gaping 
battlements and narrow, empty windows looking like the drooping 
jaw and half-closed eyes of some dead face. But the view, with 
the old fort in the foreground, and the Belleoeil Mountains in the 
distance across the whitened rapids of the river, is charming. 

Swinging up to the wharf we land, having breakfasted on 
board, and proceed with our Catholic friends to call on their 
friend Monsieur le Cure at the Py'esbytere. After a pleasant chat 
we leave our polished, kindly host, who is d'esole that we have 
breakfasted, and walk to the railway station, en route for Montreal. 

Arriving at Montreal M nine, we are taken to a certain mira- 
culous shrine in one of the churches ; and our friends endeavor to 
persuade us that many cripples, having been carried from the 
neighboring towns on beds, have walked — nay, leaped — ^home, 
having been cured by being laid before it. What a fine thing is 
faith — or credulity ! 

Bidding good-bye to our friends, who return to Sorel, we go to 
the Windsor, and, holding a family conclave in the evening, 
determine to proceed to Ottawa. 

There are two ways of reaching that capital from Montreal — 
by the eastern division of the Canadian Pacific Railway, or by 
steamer up the Lachine Canal to the mouth of the Ottawa, and 
thence up that river to Ottawa, the head of navigation. We choose 
the former that we may return by the latter, thus gaining the shoot 
of the Lachine rapids. 

Breakfast at 7.30, partaken of in a manner that makes 
Dyspepsia smile, knowing that he can soon claim us for his own. 


Chap, XX. 


\ 


\ 

OTTA WA.—173 


A cab, and a drive to the distant Hochelaga station, which we leave 
at 8.30. The train is composed of a parlor car, a couple of “ first- 
class ” cars (like our ordinary cars in the States), and a couple 
of “second-class” cars divided into two compartments, ih^ 
forward being for smokers ; and in these last cars the human 
frame is supposed to rest comfortably on the soft side of a cushion- 
less board seat. 

From our chairs at the parlor car windows, as the train bumps 
along over an exceedingly bad road-bed, we look out over a vast 
level plain, stretching away to the east and west as far as the sight 
can reach, and bounded on the north by a far-distant line of low 
and hazy hills, and showing patches of cultivated land, interspersed 
and separated by long reaches of young and old forest, the lighter 
green of the deciduous trees flecked here and there by the deeper 
hue of the pines and firs, while, every now and then wild wastes 
appear, where the forest fires have done their work, and the trees, 
blackened and bare, lie as if some giant hand had dropped them 
like a bundle of jack-straws upon the earth. 

We reach Calumet ; and the low hills, which have been dis- 
tant, are now near at hand. From the little station (wherein Uncle 
Robert and I gulp down beer and sandwiches, to the renewed 
delight and reinvigoration of the gnawing fiend), a little narrow- 
gauge railway runs to the Ottawa, a mile or so away, and to the 
flat ferry-boats, upon which passengers are poled to the other side, 
we are told. 

Off again, the hills are soon passed by, and the seemingly 
dead-level country spreads away, wild and desolate and with but 
few habitations. After awhile we strike the Ottawa ; and following 
it, sometimes near its broad stream, sometimes far away ; crossing 
sleepy rivers and winding brooks that come creeping down to 
meet the larger river and thereby to find their way at last to that 
great storehouse for the clouds, the ocean, whence their very water 
may be carried back again to feed their parent springs ; and pass- 
ing vast lumber-yards and noisy, busy mills, about noon the 
Parliament towers appear in sight ; we thunder over along bridge, 
and are at Ottawa, so called from the Indian word “Ottawa,” or 
“ Ottawak,” signifying “ an ear,” which name was given by the 
Indians to the tribe inhabiting this region, who were the only ones 
who brushed back their hair. Then we roll up a broad street. 


174—^ BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XX. 


lined with shops of fair degree, alight from the ’bus at the Russell 
House, and sit down to a good dinner. 

The establishment of the seat of the General Dominion Gov- 
ornment at Ottawa was dictated, it is said, by the august forefinger 
of the Queen. Both Montreal and Toronto clamored for it, and 
neither would give way. Therefore Her Majesty called for the 
map, and opening it at her quarrelsome provinces, espied the 
name “ Ottawa ” about midway between the two. The mere fact 
that Ottawa was but a collection of huts hundreds of miles away 
in an almost uninhabited forest, did not matter. The map was 
smooth and beautifully colored, .and the region around Ottawa as 
smooth and beautiful as any — more so, in fact, for there were 
fewer nasty black marks scrawled over it. So the Imperial fore- 
finger descended upon “ Ottawa,” and Ottawa was the capital ! 

Behold Jemima and me at the top of the tower of the Central 
Parliament Building, nearly two hundred feet from the ground. 
Hemming in the narrow circle upon which we stand, is an iron 
railing, strong and high, and fantastic in leaves and branches 
and scroll work, from which spring four ornamented heavy iron 
rods which, uniting above, support the flag-pole of the Dominion. 

What a gra,nd view ! West, north and east the vast and level 
plain is circled by the horizon’s curve, a perfect arc, softly, hazily, 
dreamily fringed by the unbroken forest’s top that, to the north 
and east, melts, undistinguished, into the heaven’s blue. 

From the west huge billowy clouds are charging at us over the 
feathery line, swept on by the soft and gentle breeze in changing 
masses of deep, dark valleys, gleaming, snowy peaks, and impend- 
ing gloom of scarce held summer shower. Through the forest 
plain the great river rolls from west to east, spreading in quiet, 
shining bays ; narrowed by dark green woody points ; spanned by 
the straight, trim railway bridge ; crossed and banded by the lines 
of booms that seem like grey-backed monsters chained in silent 
rows ; falling, in greatly sunken width, over the Chaudiere Falls, 
whose distant roar comes faintly to the ear, and whose changing^ 
ascending spray seems like the din and smoke of some far-away 
battle; sweeping by the long lines of mills and piled-up lumber 
like the houses and forts of a beleaguered town; and flowing 
calmly and majestically past the wood-fringed bluff on which our 
tower is built. The long lines of sawdust from the mills mark 


Chap. XX. 


OTTAWA.— 17s 


current and channel and eddy ; and on the broad bosom of the 
river float huge rafts of logs, with which ridiculously small tugs are 
struggling against the current toward the mills, wheezing and 
puffing and fussing like short fat men in a race. The whity-brown 
sawdust sweeps into an eddy and little bay which the projection 
of our bluff has made ; a steamer at a wharf therein blows a shrill 
and echoing whistle, churns the water and sawdust into an ill- 
looking soup, rounds the curve of Nepeon Point and, with the 
river, disappears from view. 

Descending the 177 steps of our tower, we come to the 
ground floor, and look into the legislative halls, wherefrom the 
Dominion is governed partly after the manner of the mother 
country, in that there is a House of Commons, and partly after 
that of the United States, in that there is the superior body of the 
Senate, lords probably having been too scarce to form a House 
by themselves. The House, wherein the two hundred and odd 
Commons disport themselves after the manner of their kind, is a 
large, oblong, rectangular room, handsomely paneled and painted, 
with a partially arched roof, the centre of which is of glass to 
admit light, as there are no windows. The Senate Chamber, 
likewise oblong and rectangular, is somewhat smaller, but much 
handsomer, being surrounded by a gallery faced with columns of 
carved Canadian marble, and richly decorated and furnished. 
At one end stands the Governor General’s chair of state, or throne, 
under a canopy projecting from the wall, and beside it stands 
another but somewhat smaller chair for the Princess Louise ; for, 
as the Hibernian usher says, “ it wouldn’t have done to lave her 
out at all at all.” (We were told that she wanted the larger 
chair, but that her desperate lord remarked that the line must be 
drawn somewhere, and resolutely took his rightful seat.) As we 
walk out the old usher asks us to examine the thickness and 
velvety texture of the carpet, observing : “ There’s no tobaccy 
spittin’ on that cairpit, gintlemen, as I’ve haird there is wid yees 
in the States ” — and crushed by this comparison we retire. 

As I desire to examine some of the State records, we go over 
to the office of the Secretary of State, but find that the keeper of 
records has gone away on a three weeks’ vacation and taken the 
key of the records’ room with him, and that they are consequently 
inaccessible ( ! ! ). So we wander away through the little town. 


iy6—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XX. 


and passing the water-works, look in. Here we find nine pumps, 
of which six are going, drawing their water from a flume from the 
river, and forcing it into the mains. And we are informed that 
when all the pumps are at work, a stream of water two hundred 
and sixty-four feet high can be thrown through a two and a half 
inch nozzle attached to a main near the pump house, and that, 
although they have two fire engines, they haven’t used them in six 
years — that they tried them when they first got them, but the pres- 
sure from the mains drove the water clean through them. 

Tramping along the wooden sidewalks, we reach the river, 
where miles of sawed lumber is piled high, and at length stand on 
the bridge at the foot of the Chaudiere Falls, where the Ottawa 
pours over a ragged height of slaty rock, and falls about thirty feet, 
a vast mass of brownish water, into a seething cauldron of waves 
and foam and flying spray. 

In one of the many mills we see a huge log, a forest king, 
hauled up a slippery inclined plane by hooks upon an endless 
chain, and, forced toward thirteen murderous-looking saws stand- 
ing an inch apart, fall, in a twinkling almost, dismembered into 
white and civilized boards. 

Returning in a “ bob-tail ” car, in which is a humped-back 
postman, resplendent in white helmet and blue frock coat with red 
trimmings and gold watch and chain and seal ring, we pass up 
Albert Street, whereon are some good stone houses, and by the 
market, catching a glimpse of the red brick armory in the distance, 
and at the end of the car line take a cab, and are driven to Rideau 
Hall, the Governor’s residence, to see it in its summer greenery. 
And very prettily it lies in a grove formed from the natural forest, 
and near a little dell or ravine, on each side of which stands a 
wooden structure, an observation tower in summer and toboggan- 
slide for their high-and-mightinesses in winter. Around the house, 
which is a low, flat-roofed, grey stone building, with several like 
additions, apparently very comfortable as a residence but not at 
all imposing and almost devoid of architectural beauty, are 
several drives, some flower-beds, shrubbery, trimly kept lawns, 
and that is all. , 

As we drive away, I tell Jemima of my first visit in the winter 
of ’79. I had taken a sleigh and driven down to see the house. 
To my astonishment my driver informed me that if I would be 


Chap. XX. 


OTTAWA.— 177 


driven through the grounds I must register my name at the house. 
As to drive through the grounds was the only way to obtain any 
view of the house, I consented to place my autograph on record 
for the delectation of any crowned head, and was accordingly 
driven through the twice aforementioned grounds to the mansion, 
whence the Princess had, a short time before, departed to visit her 
royal mamma in London, leaving her noble husband to keep 
house. Alighting as I was bidden at the front door (I use the word 
advisedly, for it can hardly be called an “ entrance ”), which was 
guarded by a sentinel pacing his beat on a narrow wooden path, 
way, I duly rang the bell, when an ancient Hibernian of the male 
persuasion and, I regret to say, extremely dirty, with an equally 
dirty cap upon his disheveled locks, opened the door. 

To him I made known the impression under which I labored 
as to my autograph, and inquired if there was a book kept for that 
purpose. “An’ sure I belave there is, sur ; and if ye’ll just be 
afther steppin’ in fur a minit. I’ll thry to foind it, sur.’’ Therewith 
he ushered me into a sort of small, square hall, painted and 
grained in oak, from which a few steps led up to the apparent 
level of the main floor and hall, which last terminated at the open 
door of a handsomely furnished apartment, seeming to be the 
parlor or reception-room, the most prominent object in which 
appeared to be a bust of the Marquis upon an ebony pedestal near 
the door. At the left, a pair of stairs ascended apparently to the 
second story, and at their foot was an ordinary sheet-iron stove, 
partly surrounded by a galvanized sheet-iron screen (also ordinary), 
to protect the banisters from the heat ; and fastened against the 
wall, about the height of a man’s breast, was a small desk. 

Upon this desk my ancient guide evidently expected to see the 
book of his search ; but finding its surface empty, and an inspection 
of its interior and under portion being equally fruitless, he essayed 
to discover it somewhere around the hall, with like ill-success. 
During his manoeuvers I had stood quietly patient and much 
amused, but now began to stimulate his flagging ardor and urge 
the production of the tome. But soon he gave up in despair, and 
astonished me by saying, “ Sure, sur, its mesilf that can’t foind it. 
But if ye’d koindly be afther steppin’ out again and ringin’ the bell, 
belike there’ll someone else come as ’ll give yees the book.” 
Yielding perforce to his request, I was “afther steppin’ out,” and 

13 


1/8— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP, 


Chap. XX. 


he with me ; when, after carefully closing the door behind us and 
ringing the bell, he left me to my fate, and trotted away around 
the corner. Having enjoyed the nipping cold for a moment or 
two without any apparent result from said ringing, meanwhile 
calmly gazing upon the sentinel who paced his beat, presenting to 
me alternately an impassive back and equally impassive face, I 
decided that no crowned head should be favored with my signature, 
however much he or she might pine for it; and jumping into my 
waiting sleigh, finished my inspection of the grounds and of the 
outside of the house, and drove away. 

“ How ridiculous ! ” said Jemima. “ Do you suppose the 
Governor knew of it ” 

“ No,” I replied, “ I guess he didn’t. He probably wasn’t at 
home ; or if he was, he was economizing.” 

We left our cab, after reaching the town again, and walked 
toward the Russell House. On the way we noticed quite an ornate 
church, over the main door of which was carved, ” My house shall 
be called the house of prayer.” 

‘“But ye have made it a den of thieves’ ?” said Jemima 
under her breath, with a quizzical look at three ancient and exceed- 
ingly shrewd-looking men, evidently “ pillars,” who were just then 
coming out of the vestry-room. 

As she spoke, a cart drove by, with this legend painted in 
large letters on the side: ‘‘TO HIRE. Holiness unto the Lord. 
Judas Jones, Carman.”* 

“ Rather pat ! ” I exclaimed. 

“Well, it is, rather,” she said. “ Now I wonder how much 
more than other carmen he charges, and whether he ever carries 
a load for a poor woman for nothing ? ” 

“ As to the first, probably double, when he gets the chance,” 
I replied ; “ and as to the second, a big, big no.” 

When we arrived at the hotel we found the others there before 
us, and were berated for having wandered off alone : — ^but we 
didn’t mind. 

When I had reached our room late that night (for we had all 
gone to the theatre and had a supper afterward), and, commencing 
to undress, was beginning to wonder what had become of Jemima, 


*True, except the name Author. 


Chap. XX. 


OTTAWA.— lyg 


the door opened softly and she stole in on tip-toe, with her finger 
to her lips and a laugh struggling behind their closed portal; 
when, having as softly closed the door, she sank down on a chair 
and, with her face in her hands, swayed backward and forward in 
a gale of merriment. 

“What on earth is the matter?” I asked. 

“ Oh John — oh, you should have seen his face-— and she cried 
over the bug too — oh, it was too funny — oh. I’ve laughed myself 
quite crooked — ’’ straightening her lithe form with an effort — “ I 
never — saw any — thing like it — in — my life !” 

“Well, my love, if you’ll just stop wobbling for an instant, 
and tell me, so that I can wobble too,” I said, “ I’ll be ever so 
grateful.” 

“I -will — just a minute— oh-h-h — there! You know I was 
coming up after you, when, just ahead of me, I saw Aunt Eunice 
and the Professor going up too. The lights were low, and the 
stair-carpet thick. He began to go up first; then he fell back- 
beside her ; then he helped her up by her elbow, and then by her 
arm. Then he dropped her arm and began to fumble over toward 
the other side of her waist; and just as he reached it, she pushed 
his hand away, and they reached our hall. Then he took her 
hand, and they walked toward her door ; and all the time they 
said never a word ; and I was sitting on the stairs with my eyes, 
just above the hall floor, looking through the banisters. Then 
he took her other hand and looked down at her, and she looked 
up at him. And then — oh John, wasn’t it dreadful — and at her 
age too ! — he just put both arms around her waist and kissed her !”’ 

“ Dreadful — at her age ! ” I said, laughing. 

“ But John, he’d no sooner kissed her — oh, it was too funny! ” 
and the wobbling recommenced. 

“ Will you stop and go on ?” I shouted — in a whisper. 

“ If I stop I can’t go on, you goose, you dear old gander I ” — 
settling herself comfortably on my lap. “Well, he’d no sooner 
kissed her — and he kissed her hard, too — I wish you’d stop! I’m 
not going to Banbury Cross — John ! that was harder than he 
kissed her, I know — he’d no sooner kissed her ” 

“You’ve said that three times,” I remarked. 

“Sir! Oh, you sweet ! ” — with a kiss on my lips between her 
two soft hands — ''hed no sooner kissed her" — emphasizing each 


i8o—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XX. 


word with a tap on my nose with her knuckles — “ than he jumped 
back as though he’d been stabbed — and I guess his feelings were, 
poor ,man — and there, on his coat, was one of the Picketeds, 
mashed !" — in a tragic tone, and with a burst of laughter. “Oh 
my! oh my ! — you stop wobbling, six'? And when she saw 
what had happened she actually began to cry, and carefully wiped 
the bug off with her handkerchief ; and I guess the Professor must 

have cried too, for she wiped his eyes ” 

“With the same handkerchief?” 

“ With the same handerchief, and then he kissed her again — 
sidewise — and they parted.” 

“Then I suppose they’re engaged.” 

“ Suppose ? Why of course they are ! You don’t think she’d 
let him kiss her if they weren’t ? ” 

“ No — I presume — no — oh, certainly not — certainly not ! But 
we must keep their secret.” 

“Why, of course, dear. You don’t suppose I’d tell ? ” 

“No, my love, I know you wouldn’t.” 




CHAPTER XXI. 

Steamer Again, and Graveyard Vagaries. 

The morrow saw us steaming down the Ottawa in company with 
the baskets, edibles, children, brass band, noise and confusion 
attending an excursion going part way ; and saw likewise, thank 
heaven ! said concomitants to said excursion disembark, leaving 
us room and orange peel and peanut shells. 

The grand river flowed through the level country, with here 
and there, a mighty curve of its wide waters, laving the roots of 
mile after mile of the forest that lovingly fringed its banks ; sweep- 
ing placidly by the projecting wharves and beached boats of sleepy 
hamlets, and broadening into lakes that shimmered beneath the 
shining sun ; while now and then the steamer threw out its haw- 
sers, like sinewy arms, and brought itself to, with a thud and' a 
shock, at some waiting dock, to churn off again down the tide. 
And so, hour after hour* * 

Uncle Robert and I were sitting on the forward deck after 
dinner, smoking, and Jemima was there too — for I am gratefully 
happy to say that she likes, really likes, tobacco smoke, and at 
that time assured me that I should smoke all over our house, when 
we had one, and that no curtains should come between me and 
my happiness: and she has kept her word, dear wife that she is. 

Uncle Robert, Jemima and I, I say, were on the forward 
deck ; and near us gradually gathered a little knot of men, like- 
wise smoking. 

To Uncle Robert turned one of them, a man clad in a short 
sack coat, tightly buttoned up, except at the top button, where it 
was left open, evidently to show his huge black and red cravat 
slipped through an enormous diamond (?) cluster ring, and gold 
insignium of some society pinned high up on his vest lapel, and 
said, originally, “Fine day, sir!” 

“ Very fine,” replied Uncle Robert, without enthusiasm. 

“Fine view, sir!” continued he, unabashed, waving his gold 
eye-glasses, held between the thumb and forefinger of his brand 


i 82 —A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XXL 


new yellow gloves, toward the shore, and tilting his shiny, very- 
bell-crowned hat a little further on one side. 

“Very fine,” again replied Uncle Robert, slightly turning his 
back.' 

“ Good country for consumptives, I should think,” he went 
on, apparently not noticing the turn ; and then, without stopping, 
and addressing the company in a benign and general way, 
“ reminds me of an order I got for a gravestone ” 

“ You don’t deal in gravestones, sir ? ” said a man next to him. 
“ Your dress ” 

“ Isn’t melancholy enough ? ” replied the bell-crowned, turning 
his little, sharp eyes toward him with a satisfied smile. “No, sir, 
not now. I’m traveling for pleasure now, sir, and I dress accord- 
ingly, sir ; but when I’m at home I mourn — dress in mourning, 
sir, I mean — as that’s more soothing to the relicts and executors — 
it don’t make so much difference with the heirs. As I was saying, 
I got an order for a gravestone from a nice young man who was 
going off on a cough — galloping consumption, you know — and he 
picked out his style from the drawings I took him. A few days 
after I took the same drawings to a nice young lady who was going 
the same way, but she couldn’t decide on anything. Then I showed 
her the young man’s style, and the drawings for his lettering. They 
pleased her, and she asked his address, in a casual sort of way. 
Well, sir, I got the two stones ready according to directions, and 
waited and waited for orders to set ’em up, till I got tired. Then I 
thought I’d call on the young man to see how soon he’d be ready. 
What do you think, sir ? There was that young woman nursing 
that young man,iand both of ’em getting well ! They invited me 
to their wedding six months afterwards, but I didn’t go, for I thought 
they’d treated me rather shabbily. For though they paid me for 
the stones, they had ’em cut down into doorsteps for their new 
house, and so I never could use ’em as ads.” 

“ That was hard lines,” said his neighbor. “And speaking 
of couples, I had two coffins to make ” 

“ And you’re an undertaker ?” said the gravestone man in his 
turn. “ Happy to meet you, sir ! What’s your place ?” 

“Albany,” replied the undertaker. 

“ And Troy’s mine,” said the other. “ Hope we may be 
mutually beneficial. As you were saying, sir ?” 


Chap. XXL 


GRAVEYARD VAGARIES.^183 


“As I was saying,” said the man of graves, nodding with a 
knowing smile to the man of stones, “ I had two coffins to make 
for two fianceys — engaged, you know — who died within a day of 
each other — his death killed her, they said — and it was her orders 
before she died that they should both be buried in one grave with 
their hands' clasped. How to do it the relations didn’t know, but 
they said they had promised that it should be done, and so done it 
must be. So they left it to me. At first I thought of putting ’em 
in one coffin side by side, but I measured and found they wouldn’t 
go into the hearse. So I made two coffins, with sliding panels in 
one side — his right, hers left. 

“ When they were laid out in the parlor, there they were, hand 
in hand, .the hands resting on an ‘ At Rest’ on a stool. Then when 
we hearsed ’em, we put in the arms and slid back the panels. 
When we got to the grave, which was dug for two, we lowered ’em 
side by side ; opened the panels ; clasped their hands on the ‘ At 
Rest ’ again, and, after the ceremonies, covered ’em up.” 

“He talks as if he were telling about a circus !” said Jemima 
to me ; and flashing an indignant look at the narrator, she stalked 
into the cabin. 

There was a man sitting near the speaker who, at the word 
“ fiancey ” had sighed aubibly. His immense beard swept his 
threadbare coat which was worn into scallops at the sleeves, while 
his lanky, straight hair, of as dead a brown as pea-brush, hung 
down over his leathern skin. 

“Gentlemen, I was a fiancey once!” and as he said it he 
removed his hat, exposing a bald head, over which his hair was 
twisted into a topknot tied with a shoe-lacing. 

Every one looked at him, and tried not to smile. 

“Yes,” he continued, “and these stories of graveyards have 
reminded me of her.” 

“ We’re sorry to have disturbed your feelings, sir,” said the 
undertaker. “ I suppose she laid out handsome V' 

“Not at all, sir,” replied he, with a great sigh, “not at all.. 
I’ve no doubt she would have if she’d died; but she didn’t. It 
was the graveyard. When I was engaged to her, her folks told 
me never to go to the family plot with her, for if I did, we d be 
sure to quarrel and part. So I declined several times. But one 
Sunday she said she must go look at her father’s grave, and 


i 84 —A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XXL 


she asked 'me to go along. Without thinking, I said yes, and we 
went. While we stood reading his monument she said, ‘ George, 
have you ever heard the epitaph I mean to have ? ’ 

•^‘No, my duck,’ I replied — for I was naturally affectionate, 
you know — ‘ I never have. What is it ? ’ 

“ ‘ It’s a little thing of my own,’ she said, with a shy kind of 
smile; ‘it’s this: 

I’ve gone to dust 
‘ As I knew I must. 

But I’ll upward jump 
At the sound of the trump. 

Don’t you think it’s pretty, and real religious ? ’ 

“ ‘ Well, M’ria,’ I said, ‘ I can’t say as I do. It don’t hardly 
strike me that way. Seems to me you might just as well say 

' I’ve up and dusted, 

For my life is busted. | 

But the grave I’ll jump it 
At the sound of the trumpet. 


or 

But I’ll be a jumper, 

And a heavenward stumper.’ 

“Well, gentlemen, do you know, she got real mad at my 
little joke. Said I had no feeling — no soul for poetry, and we 
argued the thing all the way home. On the doorstep she said I 
needn’t call again until she wrote to me. In a day or two I got a 
letter saying that she thought that as our ideas were so very differ- 
ent, she didn’t think we could agree in life, and that we had better 
part : that there was something about that graveyard that she 
couldn't understand, as I was the fifth it had separated her from. 
And I never saw her again ; ’’ and once more he sighed. 

The underputter of the dead, and the celebrator of them 
after they were put under, both commiserated him, when the latter 
said, “ Well, sir, I can tell you of an epitaph that made more 
trouble than that, for the row came after they were married. 
There was a young man in my town who had struck it rich in 
speculating in coffins — bought out the stock of a factory at Sheriffs 


Chap. XXL 


GRAVEYARD VAGARIES.— i8s 


sale, and jobbed ’em out at a cent per cent, profit. Guess you 
know him ? ” — to the undertaker. 

“Oh, yes,” he replied, “ I know him. Sold me a lot of large 
sizes — said he closed ’em out to me cheap, as there was more call 
for smalls and mediums. They wasn’t cheap, though, for they 
was so badly put up that, when I put a two hundred party in one, 
it all fell apart right in the parlor, and made me no end of bother, 
besides bringing the widow to.’’ 

“ Thought you knew him,’’ said the gravestone man. “ Well, 
he would have a stone cut in his lifetime — said he wanted to 
superintend it himself. And I should think he ought to, for it was 
the queerest thing I ever had ordered. Guess he must have been 
something -of a spiritualist. It was cut like an over-stuffed arm- 
chair, tufts and buttons and fringe and all. And on the inside of 
the back — front part, you know — he had, ‘ This is my seat from 
midnight till cock-crowing. At all other times it is yours.’ ’’ 

“ What did he mean by that?” said the rejected. 

“ I believe he’d an idea he’d sit there fine nights after he was 
a ghost. Well, his wife came to see it, and she said she wanted one 
like it. He said he couldn’t afford two. Then she said he must 
have the inscription changed to ‘ This is our seat from midnight 
till cock-crowing.’ He said he wo-uldn’t do that, for it would spoil 
the effect, for anybody could see that two couldn’t sit comfortably 
in that chair; and besides he preferred to sit alone. Well, sir, 
that was the beginning, I heard, and they kept it up till she got a 
divorce on the ground of cruel and barbarous treatment — swore he 
wouldn’t give her a chair to sit upon, though she was careful not 
to say where ; and as he didn’t appear to defend, the judge never 
knew the truth.” 

Uncle Robert and I went aft after that. 


■I 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Exciting — To Us. 

And now the river widens into the Lac des Deux Montagnes, and 
we steam along its western shore, pass through the railway bridge 
at Vaudreul and, skirting the Isle Perrot, enter the St. Lawrence 
and the Lac St. Louis. Soon the village of Lachine, at the head 
of the Lachine Canal, comes into view on the northern shore, and 
the Indian village of Caughnawaga on the southern, and we know 
that we are nearing the Lachine Rapids ; and there is a scramble 
for seats at the bow, where we have already secured our places. 

The river narrows^ The current begins to flow smooth and 
strong. See, ahead, that first dip, like a great, shining terrace. 
We involuntarily hold our breath as the steamer rushes toward it, 
and glance back at the Indian pilot at the wheel, whose strong, 
set face reassures us. Now an inclination forward, an added rush, 
a plunge, and we are*in the rapids. The waters swirl and boil on 
every side; and the great eddies lash the oncoming tide into foam. 
The black and shining faces of the rocks appear and disappear,’ 
like lurking monsters hungering for our lives. The channel nar- 
rows, and the swiftly rushing stream now breaks in jets of foamy 
spray, now flows in long-drawn furrows of a shining blue, now 
swirls in depths of livid green. The steamer rolls and labors. 
Another plunge, and right ahead looms up a black and jagged 
rock, past which the river flows in one vast sweep that ever and 
anon lays bare its cruel, dripping sides down toward the depths. 
The current sucks us to this last rush of all. The steamer shivers 
and the heart stands still, as we flash past the ragged teeth that 
wait to tear us, but just miss their prey — and float out smoothly on 
the shining bosom of the resting stream. 

We ran up alongside the larger steamer for Quebec, and we 
and a few other passengers were transferred, bag and baggage, 
into its cavernous depths. 

Every one going aboard, and every one not going warned off 
by an intermixture of bell and yell, and w'e were once more on our 


Chap. XXII. 


EXCITING— TO US.— 187 


way toward the sea. Apparently the self-same people were on 
board that had gone with us to Sorel, for there was the -same 
dancing, the same singing, and the same chaffering over travelers’ 
unnecessaries. Likewise were there the same manillas and 
usquebaugh for Uncle Robert and me. 

Again Sorel’s baleful eyes came into view ; again appeared 
the buildings with but one visible wall ; again the hawser lines and 
gang-planks sprang out, and we stood on the deck and chatted 
with the Des and the Efffs, whom we had recognized in the crowd 
and energetically hailed. 

The last good-bye had been said ; the last waving handker- 
chief had disappeared in the gloom; the lights upon the wharf 
lessened, ’dimmed and disappeared, and, throbbing through the 
night, the steamer rushed upon its way. The boat’s company 
disappeared one by one, and soon Aunt Hepzibah, Aunt Eunice 
and Victorine, and the Professor followed, and Uncle Robert, 
Jemima and I were left chatting near the piano, abaft of the 
companion-way. And near us were a few scattered groups, like 
us chatting merrily, or drowsily considering the advisability of bed. 

“What is that ?” exclaimed Jemima, as a report like a rifle 
crack echoed through the silent night. 

The answer came. The crash of wood — a tearing, rending 
sound ; the crash of glass ; the snap of parting beams, and through 
the partition around the machinery, snapping timbers as if they 
had been straws, and shivering the great mirror at the head of the 
companion-way, the huge connecting-rod fell like an arm of death. 
Down through the cabin’s ceiling ; cutting through railing and 
piano as with a knife ; down through a group bound hand and 
foot by fear ; down through the deck ; down through the sleeping 
women underneath ; down to the lowest hold it fell, where, driven 
by the revolving wheels, it tore at the resisting planks like a 
monster in its death agony. 

And now, through the crash of wood and clang of steel, arose 
the human cry. The shrieks of women ; the cries of men ; the 
moans of the dying and the wailing for the dead. And still the 
monster underneath tore at the planks, and Death by Drowning 
stared the living in the face. 

At the first crash Uncle Robert and I had seized Jemima and 
dragged her ‘toward the state-room doors. And before our very 


i8S—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XXII. 


faces fell that awful arm ; before our very faces fell upon that 
merry group so near to us, and carried mangled flesh and 
broken bones and dying shrieks down to the deck below, to mingle 
with other mangled flesh and other broken bones and other dying 
shrieks, and all to fall together down to that lowest hold, to be 
tossed back and forth by the monster in its death agony. 

It was horrible ! 

We burst open the door of the state-room nearest to us and 
fled inside, for the floor of the cabin was falling fast. Then 
through the window we and the occupants escaped to the deck, 
which was already full of frightened people in all stages of 
undress. 

The thrash and tear of the connecting-rod below soon ceased, 
the wheels coming to a stand-still as the steamer gradually lost 
her headway and at length drifted on the river. We fastened a 
life preserver around Jemima, and, putting her in what seemed to 
be a safe place by the railing at the stern, at her earnest entreaty 
I went with Uncle Robert to endeavor to find the others. Their 
state-rooms were on the opposite side of the boat, and as it was im- 
possible to make our way along the narrow, crowded deck, we 
went back through the state-room through which we had come, and 
emerged into the after-cabin. What an awful sight it was ! What 
perfect chaos! The floor clung to the beams underneath the 
state-room doors, here a level, jagged projection, there hanging 
like a ragged cloth. And gaping down the midst, almost to the 
stern doors, was an horrible hole, a ragged wound, from whose 
dark depths the cries and moans and shouts arose as if from an 
abode of the damned. And over all was shed but the light from 
two or three lamps that the descending rod had spared. A hell 
half lighted ! 

Painfully creeping over the tottering remnants of the floor, we 
made our way forward to the forward cabin, which was unharmed. 
There we found, among the rest, the sought : Aunt Hepzibah on 
her knees, commanding the Lord to save her ; Aunt Eunice in a 
dead faint, presided over by the Professor, imploring her to speak 
to him, and Victorine dancing up and down in an ecstacy of 
terror, calling upon Monsieur Jones, Boloos, ?no7i ange, la vie de 
mon coeur, to come her to conserve. But alas. Bolus was in the 
men’s cabin underneath, and could not hear. 


Chap. XXII. 


EXCITING— TO US.—i8g 


Finding them safe, I left Uncle Robert with them, and dashed 
back for Jemima. Just then from far below arose a cry that 
swelled above shriek, wail and moan, and made the stoutest heart 
stand still. “She’s sinking! Save yourselves!” and wdth the 
cry the steamer slowly settled toward the stern. 

Then what an awful rush, what a mad rush for the bow ! From 
the stern deck, along the narrow decks outside the state-rooms, 
creeping over the broken remnants of the after-cabin floor, men 
trampling over women, and women screaming for their children, 
they came. I fought against the human tide ; was thrown down 
and trampled ; rose again and again fought on, a mad and frenzied 
fight to reach the life that was dearer to me than my own. Men 
cursed me and beat me back ; women clutched at me in the throng ; 
but still I struggled on. Inch by inch I fought my way. The 
crowd was thinning ; but a few frantic stragglers rushing toward 
the bow, and over an empty deck I flew, calling my wife’s name in 
an agony of despair. And all the while, with shiver and groan, 
as if itself a dying life, the steamer was slowly sinking from the 
black night into the blacker water. 

“Jemima! Jemima!” but there was no answering voice. I 
reached the railing where I had left her. Great God ! it was gone 
— torn from its sockets and hanging down into the w^ater that 
was now almost on a level with the deck. 

“Jemima! Jemima!” Is that her voice answering me? 
“Jemima! Where are you?” It is her voice, oh, thank God, it 
is ! “ Here, John ! Oh, come quick ! ” 

I rushed toward her voice. I saw a dark form lying on the 
deck upon its outer edge. I threw myself on my knees beside 
her. “ Oh, my love, I have found you ! Are you hurt? You’ll 
fall overboard ! ” and I threw my arms around her to drag her 
back. 

“ Oh, John, don’t ! I’ll lose my hold ! ” And then I found— 
believe it or not as you will — I found that my wife, my pretty, 
child-like wife, was patiently trying to save another’s life at the 
risk of her own. Lying flat upon the deck, her arm wound 
round a railing post yet firm, she was bending far over the side, 
holding by the wrist a child whose moans showed that it was 
still alive. 


ipo—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XXII. 


I stretched myself beside her and, grasping the post, felt 
down her arm until I reached the child ; when, seizing its slender 
arm, I drew it gently to the deck, and laid it down beside my 
wife. 

“ It is safe, thank God ! ” but as I drew Jemima back to 
the safety of the deck, she did not answer, for she had fainted. 

At last I brought her to. Meanwhile the water had stopped 
rising, and the steamer was evidently aground. Her deck was 
sloping sharply toward the stern, and she had listed, so that we 
three were thrown against, but were held safe by the netting of the 
remaining railing. The dawn began to glimmer in the east, and 
a faint light showed the water, grey and indistinct. It brightened 
— and as my wife opened her eyes, they met mine. 

Why write the rapture of two new-found lives, by each of 
whom the other is held dearer than its own ? Search your own 
heart — and in the glad cry, the sob of joy, the tears of utter 
thankfulness, read what we felt when our lips pressed living lips, 
not dead. 

I turned toward the child — for our own is always first — and 
found it lying — dead ? No, again thank God ! not dead, but 
quietly asleep, with its pretty head upon its little arm ! I drew it 
toward us gently, and Jemima lifted its head upon her lap. 

As I held her in my arms, waiting until day should fairly 
break — for all immediate danger was passed, and I knew we were 
safer where we were, for the present, out of the crush — she told 
me what had happened after I left her. The crush on the deck 
had become greater and greater, until the pressure on the railing 
growing more than it could bear, it suddenly parted not far from 
her ; was torn away quite up to her, and many were precipitated 
into the water — whence, alas! they never came. “Oh, John,” 
she said, shuddering, “ I shall never forget the awful cry they gave 
as they went over into the black water ! I threw myself on the 
deck, or was thrown down, I don’t know which, and grasped that 
post — you dear old post, you ! ” — looking at it fondly — “ when just 
then this pretty child was pushed overboard right over me. Its 
little frightened cry went straight to my heart, and I grasped its 
dress as it fell, holding myself from going too by that good post. 
I felt the dress beginning to tear, and so I called to it as gently as 
I could, so as not to frighten it more, to take hold of my hand ; 


Chap. XXIL 


EXCITING— TO US.—igi 


and, brave little woman that it is ! ” — stroking its curly hair — “ she 
reached up her two little hands and clasped mine. And as I felt 
her soft little fingers close around mine, I vowed I would not let 
go my hold till death should make me. So I changed my hold 
to her wrist. And I felt the steamer going down and down, and 
heard the water coming nearer and nearer, and all the people left 
me, and I began to grow faint, and to have strange, far-away 
dreams ; when I heard you calling, and then you came ; and I 
didn’t know anything more till I saw your dear eyes looking into 
mine.” 

And again, as by the pines, I thanked God in my heart that 
such a soul belonged to me. 

The dawn having now fairly come, I lifted the child, who 
awoke smiling, in my arms, and, with Jemima, was about to 
climb forward, when who should appear, sliding down the deck, 
but Uncle Robert, God bless him! Jemima threw her arms 
around his neck and kissed him, while I promised an explanation 
of why we were alive later, and we all climbed up the side deck, 
by the help of the railing, as far as the paddle-box, where we 
crawled through a state-room window, and so reached the forward 
cabin. The passengers were resting against the state-room walls 
and the stationary chairs and settees, and Uncle Robert led us to 
the rest of our party. And then what laughing and crying and 
embracing there was ! for they had almost given us up for dead. 
But, alas ! some were weeping and wailing for those they knew 
were dead. 

Just then a shriek rang through the cabin, rousing us all, 
although so used to cries of horror and pain. But this was no cry 
of pain. For calling “ Birdie I Birdie! oh my Birdie ! ” a young 
mother rushed up the steep cabin floor ; fell, rose, and struggling 
on, fell on her knees beside me as I sat, and tearing the child from 
my arms, smothered it with kisses, crying, “oh my Birdie! 
Mamma’s own ! ” in an agony of joy. Then suddenly releasing 
the child, she threw her arms around my neck, calling me the 
savior of her child, and pressed one heartfelt kiss upon my lips. 
Then when I told her that the thanks were my wife’s, not mine, it 
was Jemima’s neck that was encircled, and on her sympathetic 
bosom and in her arms the mother sobbed away the grief that had 
been hers through so many anguished hours. (Jemima and I 


jg2—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XXIL 


receive, upon every anniversary of that day, some lovely token from 
that grateful heart, and with it a message more lovely than the 
gift.) 

Then Uncle Robert and I — and his coolness and bravery dur- 
ing the dreadful night had been, I heard, beyond all praise — 
climbed down through a hole that had been cut in the floor — for 
the companion-way was not only smashed, but under water — to 
see what we could do. 

On the forward lower deck we found the crew and the second 
and third class passengers, and many of the men of the first class, 
who had first cut the hole in the floor, and then climbed down like 
ourselves. And there we likewise found Bolus, his imperturbability 
somewhat under the weather, but rapidly recovering ; otherwise 
unharmed. He grasped my proffered hand with respectful 
cordiality ; expressed his (not too exuberant) delight at our safety, 
and intimated that he thought he’d ’ad enough of Hamerican 
steamboat travel, leastways he preferred that on 'the Thames. 
Uncle Robert told me he was almost the first that clambered up 
into the cabin, where, after a cursory view of the safety of the 
party in general, he had devoted himself to quieting the nerves of 
Victorine in particular. 

Then I learned what, as I had supposed, was the cause of the 
accident. The connecting-rod — the great steel rod connecting the 
wheels with the walking-beam — had broken at the “ fork,” near 
the walking-beam, and on the up-stroke, when it was lifted to its 
highest point, and then had fallen aft, crushing through the hur- 
ricane deck, the saloon deck, the women’s cabin underneath, and 
into the hold. The revolutions of the wheels (about ten), caused 
by the way of the vessel, had driven it backward and forward as it 
lay, tearing a hole in the bottom of the boat ; when she filled at 
the stern, and would have gone entirely down, if she had not been 
headed by the pilot, with wonderful presence of mind, toward 
shore, and drifted upon it, where she now lay, with her bow well 
out of water, but her stern sunk nearly to the level of the saloon 
deck. 

As the vessel had settled astern, the freight had slipped down 
the deck ; carried away the partition dividing the smoking-room 
and women’s cabin from the forward deck, and was now mostly 
under water, lying upon the bodies of those killed by the rod, the 


Chap. XXII. 


EXCITING— TO US.—igs 


survivors having clambered forward ; for all communication with 
the saloon deck had been cut off by the smashing of the com- 
panion-way. ^ 

As we were talking, a whistle was heard, and Uncle Robert 
and I climbed up with the others, and we all swarmed out on deck. 
Bearing down toward us was a steamer from Quebec ; and as she 
came, her whistle answered our cheers. Soon she was alongside, and 
gang-planks were stretched to our decks, and all our passengers 
were transferred ; some to return up the river home, and the rest 
to return as far as Sorel, to await the night’s steamer down : and 
among these, some — poor unfortunates ! — to await the recovery of 
their dead. 

Did I say all were transferred ? All but one, and she a bride 
oi but a few days. For she had been one of that merry group, 
and her husband had gone down with that cruel arm of Death into 
that lowest hold. She refused to leave, but haunted that awful 
hole, the ghost of a dead happiness. 

Our baggage, except what we had in our valises, which was 
sufficient, luckily, to last us home, was gone — lying soaking in the 
drowned baggage-room. So we dismissed it (externally) from our 
minds, having our baggage checks as bases for future damage 
claims, and departed, truly thankful to have, if not terra firma, 
at least navis firma underneath our feet ; and likewise truly 
thankful that we were not among those moaning on the way. 

Arrived at Sorel, we were, for our particular coterie, heroes 
and objects of interest ; and we comparatively rested and almost 
grew rosy again upon the repeated narration of the disaster. 

At eleven o’clock that night we once more embarked at Sorel’s 
lamplighted wharf, and steamed in confidence over the bosom of 
that river which had so nearly swallowed us up, and would do it 
again, and entirely, if it could. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


Quebec, and the Falls of Montmorency. 

The god of day, like a spirit of good, slowly opens his wings 
upon a world freed from night, and through the mists and shadows 
of the dark, departing hours, greyly lights up field and flood. 
The eastern horizon brightens into warmer glow ; the shining 
glory from around the sun-god’s brow spreads through the light 
and level clouds above his head ; his beaming face laughs over 
the edge of the revolving earth ; the little, coquettish waves dimple 
and play beneath his silvery smile ; the trees that crown the bluffs 
on either hand tremble with joy through all their leaves at the 
kiss and the breath of the day, which comes, is here, and the 
broad bosom of the river heaves and the landscape smiles with 
brightest glow, as the now risen lord of light sips the dew from 
grass and flowers, from waving blades of corn and tremulous 
leaves, and with his burning hand upon the river’s breast sweeps 
off the shrouding mists of night. 

The steamer plows through the laughing waves that tumble 
against her white and sturdy sides, spring up before her prow in 
merry spray, clamber upon her flying wheels and madly rush 
away in whirling, dancing foam. 

Ahead, a mound grows from the water’s edge ; rises, of hazy 
blue ; the surface roughens into roofs and spires ; the castle crowns 
its precipice, and before us lies Quebec. The whistle sounds ; the 
engine slows and stops, and we slide over the smooth water until, 
with a bump and a shock, the great steamer is at the wharf. 

What a hurry and a scurry ! And we are hurried and our 
baggage scurried out upon the dock. We pass on to a market 
square — which we afterwards find is almost the only level place in 
the town — on one side of which stands the low, granite custom- 
house, while on the other two are lofty warehouses. Amid a din 
of hackmen, we choose one of several ’busses — that of the St. 
Louis Hotel — which starting, soon leaves the level and begins to 
climb a winding and exceedingly steep street which, following a 


Chap. XXIII. 


QUEBEC.— igs 


sort of ravine in the bluff on which the town is built, leads up from 
the river. About half-way up the ’bus almost stops, and it is nip 
and tuck whether the horses will succeed in dragging up the 
heavy load, or whether we shall roll backward, to the dissolution 
of the ’bus and ourselves. But an immense amount of lashing 
and yelling so animates the poor beasts, that we safely reach the 
hotel. 

Quebec lies on a high ridge which, projecting into the river 
from its northern shore, is called Cape Diamond. Upon the 
extreme point and highest part of this ridge the Castle of St. Louis 
stands, crowning a precipice over three hundred feet high, at the 
foot of which the river flows ; a narrow street and a line of wharves 
utilizing the scanty beach and the deep channel. From the small 
level space at the eastern end of this water street, where is the 
market square above mentioned and where Champlain first built 
his habitation, the city spreads east along the more level shore, 
and rounds north and west up toward the castle wherever foothold 
can be found, and so on further north and west out toward the 
Plains or Heights of Abraham, the broad, bare and level top of 
the ridge, which is almost precipitous on the western side. That 
part of the city which lies upon the higher ground, and is the more 
ancient, is called the Upper Town, and around this runs the old 
wall or rampart, battlemented and crowned by cannon whose- 
black throats open down upon the Lower (and newer) Town,, 
which spreads away over the level lands toward the east. To pen 
such a picture of the city that the mind can view it at a glance, is 
almost impossible ; for such a mixture is there of ragged precipice, 
of clinging, stone-built houses, of huge walls supporting terraces, 
of steep and winding streets, of battlemented ramparts, of glisten- 
ing, tin-covered spires, and of castle frowning over all, that no 
concise word-painting can do justice to the whole. 

Even Aunt Hepzibah’s grim nerve has been shattered by the 
excitement and strain of the accident, while Aunt Eunice is a per- 
fect wreck. Jemima, dear child, has, so to speak, come up smiling. 
But rest for all is prescribed, and so the entire day is given up to 
that excellent but wearying occupation. The Professor devotes 
himself to Aunt Eunice with an assiduity born of the uncertainty 
of his would-be matrimonial position (or so it seems to us), while 
Uncle Robert devotes himself, somewhat, to the cup which, cheers 


jg6-A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP, 


Chap. XXIII. 


and, in sufficient numbers, will inebriate, the doses being, however, 
pleasanter than an equal quantity of his wife : but the occasion 
would seem to demand some stimulant. I spend the time in per- 
suading Jemima to lie down and go to sleep, and in absenting my 
unwilling self from her side, in the hope (which is continually 
proved to be vain by her constant reappearance) that she will obey ; 
during which absenting I occasionally join Uncle Robert in mild 
conviviality. And so the day wears on and away, until forced rest 
is supplanted by willing. 

The morning is again bright and clear, and the sun fairly 
winks at us from glistening roofs and spires, through the open 
windows of our room. 

“Impertinence!” cries Jemima, as she lies bathed in the 
light from his broad face. “ Pull down the shade, John, and 
serve him right by shutting him out ! The idea, looking into a 
lady’s room ! ” 

But she and the sun are the best of friends as we stroll out 
after our breakfast for a sight-see of the town. For the others 
have not yet appeared, and we have stolen away, like children 
from school, to revel in this new world alone. 

On the opposite side of the street, and at the corner of a very 
crooked street — but no street here is even approximately straight — 
stands a little, one-and-a-half-story house, with white, stuccoed 
walls and high, steep, shingled roof, wherein a colored brother 
has established his “ studio,” wherefrom he advertises himself to 
the world as “ Physiognomical Hair Cutter, Capillary Abridger, 
and Cranium Manipulator.” And in the self-same room in which 
this brother snips and clips and shaves and garrulously entertains 
his customers, the great Montcalm, in the years gone by, lay 
a-dying — died. Yes, to this little house, his headquarters, from 
the bloody Plains of Abraham, he was carried ; and in his life- 
blood was written a history of brave defense which shall never fade. 

Winding down the street we come to a sort of square, whose 
slope is roughly paved with cobble-stones, except where, in short 
parallel lines, flag-stones have been laid, upon which may stand 
the wheels of sundry cabs and coaches, waiting to be hired. Upon 
one side of this square is a great wall, holding up a part of the 
square itself, and going down to the depths. On another, face 
some of the principal shops, while on another stands the stone 


Chap. XXIII. 


QUEBEC.— 197 


French Cathedral, consecrated in 1666, whose queer, irregular 
front is supported by two towers, one square and looking as if it 
were but half finished ; the other like three cupolas, decreasing in 
size, piled one on the other, and all three, almost from the ground 
up, covered with bright, unpainted tin, and surmounted with an 
iron cross in open work, which bears on its top a long-tailed and 
very movable cock. We inspect the interior, which we find to be 
handsome, especially the chancel, which is said to have been 
modeled after that of St. Peter’s at Rome. 

Near the Cathedral is the principal store for furs and Indian 
goods ; and here we see furs of all kinds and qualities, snow-shoes, 
toboggans, wampum work, Indian odds and ends, and moccasins 
ab libitum. Concerning these last, we learn that those made of 
coarse, fibrous buffalo hide are the worst; part buffalo and part 
moose the next; all moose the next ; and the fine white caribou 
the best and most durable. Of these last I instantly order two 
pairs — one for myself, and one to be much worked m bright- 
colored wampum, fine, soft and of dainty shape and size, not for 
myself. Price $2 per pair. 

“Oh dear,” says Jemima, as she extracts her pocket-book 
from the depths of her pocket in some incomprehensible part of 
her dress, “this is the gookiest old pocket-book that ever was, 
it ” — sadly, gazing at the attenuated consents — “ never will hold, to 
keep, you know, any money at all. I don’t know how it is” — 
confidentially — “ but all the money I put there seems to tak« feet 
to itself and walk off.” And then she pays for a pair of miniature 
snow shoes, and looks longingly at a superb bear-skin hanging 
upon the wall. (That bear-skin is now upon our library floor.) 

“John,” she says, with comic sadness, “ I was born with the 
taste of a gold spoon in my mouth ; but only the taste, not the 
spoon.” 

“ But perhaps,” I say, “the spoon will follow the taste.” 

“Ah,” she replies, “but it’s so hard to quell a present need 
by the hope of a future help ! ” 

“That’s true,” I answer, as we walk out, “but console your- 
self ; none but the poor — that’s I — deserve the fair — that’s you — a 
recompense for their poverty ; and I’ve got what I deserve.” 

“Egotist!” she cries gaily. “Deserve indeed I What? 
Purchase me with your small hoard which ” 


ig 8 —A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. Chap. XX II I. 


“Which will help to keep up our scanty fire under our modest 
pot,” I interrupt. 

“You may well say modest,” she says, with half-a-dozen 
decided little nods, “ for modest it will be, when we get one. You 
know, John ” — with a quizzical puckering of her little mouth— 
“ I’ve commenced to keep an account. But so many childish little 
items appear, that it looks like a kindergarten, and I ca 7 tnot keep 
it in any kind of order.” 

I roar. 

Descending the street upon which the ’bus and we came so 
near to our respective deaths, we reach, branching down from it, 
the Rue Petit Champlain. What a street ! So steep that nothing 
but a goat could successfully pass up and down it, and therefore 
covered by, and now composed of, a long succession of wooden 
steps, broken by frequent landings or platforms. So narrow that 
the signs which hang out over the petty shops which line it — 
banners of the purse-conquering army — almost touch each other — 
almost wage the civil war which their respective owners carry on 
below. And at the foot of this street the tomb of Champlain is said 
,to have been found. 

A little further on — and now we are underneath the castle, 
whose great supporting wall towers far above the houses — we come 
to a little square, a very lihle square, only a few square yards in 
extent, and being in reality more of a triangle, at one end of which 
stands the little old stone church of Notre Dame des Victoires, 
built by Champlain in 1615, and named partly in commemoration 
of the repulse of Admiral Sir William Phipps, who in the same 
year unsuccessfully bombarded the city. It is as small as its 
triangular square, and the sharp, high-pitched roof is surmounted 
at the front by a little cupola and a cross. We enter — for happily 
the Roman Catholic churches are always open — and see, in a little 
side-chapel, an image of the dead Christ laid in a glass case as if 
it was (as it is) a show wax-work. On the little altar are enormous 
silver candle-sticks — solid, we are assured — while a large silver 
hanging lamp, fretted and carved — also solid — depends from the 
ceiling. On the walls are queer old paintings of the Annunciation, 
and of that part of the crucifixion where Christ, nailed to the cross, 
is being raised with it. A peasant woman comes in and drones a 
prayer, which echoes in the silent place, and we go out. 


Chap. XXIII. 


QUEBEC.— igg 


Going down to the steamer wharf at which we had landed, we 
board a tubby little steamer, the North (there is also a South, and 
no more), and are paddled over to Point Levi, where we ascend 
the high bluff by a flight of steps, and obtain a fine view of the 
city across the half-mile or so of river. 

The atmosphere at dinner was electric. For it seems that 
Aunt Eunice and the Professor had likewise stolen a march on 
Aunt Hepzibah, and disappeared, leaving the wretched Robert to 
sustain the entertainment of his wrathful spouse alone. “ It was 
awful !” he afterwards confided to me. “ She wouldn’t budge 
from the hotel. Declared she didn’t want to traipse around a city 
that was all up hill and down dale, looking at a lot of old houses 
and tinned churches alo 7 ie — didn’t seem to consider me anybody. 
But it’s her way, you know,” and he sighed resignedly. 

We four met the storm with affected penitence. Avowed that 
we thought her too tired to go sight-seeing, and that we had missed 
her dreadfully. “ But oh, wasn’t it a pleasant miss !” said Jemima 
to me under her breath. Then I proposed that we all visit the 
Falls of Montmorency that afternoon, Jemima and I in Ticaleche, 
and -the rest in a carriage, as being more comfortable. This met 
with the approval of Her Royal Highness, and was settled. 

“Jemima,” said I, as we left the dining-room, “get on your 
hat quick and meet me at the ladies’ entrance and away she 
flew, good girl, without stopping to ask why, while I explained to 
Aunt Hepzibah that she (Jemima) and I would go and select the 
vehicles : and we went. 

Proceeding to the cab-stand in the Cathedral square, we 
selected a calkhe having the apparently fastest horse, and like- 
wise an open barouche. The latter I ordered to be at the hotel in 
half an hour. 

A noble vehicle is the oa/eche— the “ one horse shay ” of our 
forefathers. It is of solid build, 800 pounds in weight, and will last 
(perhaps) a century. Upon heavy wheels, four and a half feet 
high, is swung, on great leathern straps, a gig-like top, on the 
dash-board of which, on a narrow board and cushion, sits the 
driver, his legs dangling out over the shafts. The wheels and 
shafts and undergear are painted white, the body green, and the 
top black. We bargain to go to the Falls and back for $2— 
regular price ^3, but hackmen not busy and eager in the 


200— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. Chap. XX III. 


afternoon— enter, and dash down the steep, narrow streets,, through 
the level of the Lower Town, and away on the hard, macada- 
mized beach road, down the river. 

“ Oh, isn’t this delicious ! ” cries Jemima, as the gig swings to 
and fro and from side to side on its leathern straps with the 
rapid motion, “ it’s like being out at sea;” and she gives me a 
furtive hug. 

“ My darling ! ” I ejaculate under my breath, “ the driver ! ” 

“Oh, is there a driver? ” she says — he is exactly in front of 
us on the dash-board seat — “so there is! Well, I don’t believe 
he would object to a very small expression of affection from his 
wife 1 ” and she settles herself with a little bump at her end of the 
broad seat, and looks at me with defiant love. 

On the way we pass the pretty villas of the townspeople, and 
numerous old French houses, all one-and-a-half stories high, with 
central-pointed, peaked roof and heavy eaves. Also through the 
village of Beauport, which is four miles long and consists of but a 
single street ! As this street or road winds and turns, and as all 
the houses face exactly north and south, the angles presented to 
the street are numerous. As we bowl along we pass a very large 
man seated in a very small cart drawn by a yellow dog ; and in 
an hour have accomplished the eight miles to the Falls. We 
register at the Falls Hotel, that our names may go down the ages; 
pay twenty-five cents for the privilege of passing through a wicket 
gate — we regret we didn’t climb the fence — and walk to the Falls, 
preceded by a small boy who insists on showing us a path from 
which a blind man could not stray. I scent a fee in the person of 
that boy, and determining he shan’t have it, resolutely ignore his 
very existence. 

What a sight ! At the head of a deep chasm of black, bare, 
wet and shining rock, a black and rapid river flows smooth and 
swift to the brink of its awful leap, and in one wild plunge 
falls, broken into a great white sheet of foam, two hundred 
and fifty feet to the boiling cauldron below, whence rises a 
cloud of flying spray far up into the air, drenching the 
jagged rocks, and sweeping down the chasm toward its mouth, 
through which the seething river passes also till, spreading and 
placid, as the chasm opens out, it is lost in the greater St. 
Lawrence. 


Chap. XXIII. 


FALLS OF MONTMORENCY .— 201 


From our point of view, a summer-house on the edge of the 
steep, we go down a wooden stairway 367 steps to near the bottom 
of the defile and the river. But I venturing up a little way toward 
the fall, the spirits of the place resent my intrusion, and send such 
a blast of spray at me that I retreat precipitately. Above the Falls 
stand, on either side of the little river, the piers of what was once 
a chain suspension bridge, built by an American. But the bridge 
broke, and eight people were swept over the Falls ; which so 
dampened the enterprise that it broke also. 

As we walk back, the still undiscouraged boy demands ten 
cents ; whom my refusal and endeavor to show how it had not 
been earned so discourages, that he at last turns sadly away ; when 
I immediately call him back and present him with a fee, to teach 
his youthful mind the law of supply and demand in the first place, 
and gratitude in the second. 

As we are ready to go, Jemima writes, and entrusts to the now 
humbly docile small boy, a missive for Aunt Hepzibah, with an 
additional ten cents. In the missive she recites that, as we are 
going back a longer way, we regret to say that we cannot wait ; 
and off we go, still alone. 

Oh solitude of two ! The trembling hearts first waking into 
love, strive for thy presence as the potent aid to gain that which 
they long to know is theirs. The overflowing hearts, bathed in 
the light of love, hail thee, the giver of the joys they own. While 
love shall reign in power upon his throne, thou art his minister to 
them who to him bow the knee. But when, dethroned, he leaves 
his kingdom of two hearts, thou art the feared, the shunned, the 
harbinger of ill, the minister of discord and the bane of time ! 

And so, in joyful solitude of two (the cocker doesn’t count), 
we reach again the ancient, battlemented town. And we would^ 
“ cheerfully recommend” to all future travelers, Talbotte Dijorvin, 
his calhhe No. 400, and his horse. 


■ CHAPTER XXIV. 

The Castle of St. Louis ; The Expected, and Home. 

On the 3d of July, 1608, Samuel Champlain founded the city of 
Quebec by building his habitation on a little level space at the 
foot of La Montagne, the precipitous end of Cape Diamond, 
which, as I have said before, is itself the abrupt termination of 
the narrow, high table-land which juts out into the river. 

As time went on, the cliff above the little settlement was 
gradually fortified, until a citadel, from the plans of the famous 
Vauban, was built, the town meanwhile having crept up toward 
its protector, and having been surrounded by a strong wall, one 
gate of which, La Porte St. Jean, was built in 1694. 

Time again went on, and the town and citadel successfully 
withstood many attacks by sea and land, from Indians, the 
English, and the English colonists in the Provinces to the south. 
At last, one day, a British fleet anchored in the river, and another 
siege was begun. The assailants were beaten at every point, and 
the Englishmen, under Wolfe, retired discomfited to their ships, 
leaving the triumphant French, under Montcalm, on the Montmo- 
rency River, nine miles from the town, where the battle had been 
fought. 

But what are these shadowy forms which appear in the wild 
and stormy night, creeping up over the edge of the Castle cliff, 
and swarming upon the Plains of Abraham ? Wolfe and his men ! 
The enemy between Montcalm and his citadel ! And in the bloody 
struggle both commanders fall, the one to die on the field, the other 
to be carried to that little house at the corner of the crooked street, 
where he too passed away, glorying that he should not live to 
seethe downfall of the town. And in five days — on the i8th of 
September, 1759 — Chevalier de Ramsey walked out of the 
castle, and Brigadier General Townsend walked in, and the power 
of France in the New World was broken. 

As we stroll over the barren level of the Heights of Abraham, 
and look down that dreadful steep, we wonder how men unaided 


Chap. XXIV. 


CASTLE OF ST. LOUIS.— 203 


from above — much less in a dark and stormy night, when the least 
sound would betray them to an enemy and to death — could scale 
that cliff, and fight the fight that made Wolfe and Montcalm immor- 
tal. And as we pass the monument that marks the spot where 
they fell, we wonder whether men who have thus left the world 
know and rejoice that their names and deeds can never die. A 
death to strive for, if they do ! Oh, let us hope and believe they 
do. For how many of all the men who have left a deathless fame 
behind, have seen but the first faint glimmer of that fame — if even 
that — before they laid their bodies down to feed the flame which 
should become a never-waning sun ? 

On the way back toward the hotel, whence Jemima and I had, 
after breakfast, marched boldly out (not stolen away this time), 
with banners flying, upon which was emblazoned the legend, We 
Will To Be Alone, we come to the buildings of the Provincial 
Parliament, very long, very narrow, very high and very ugly, an(/ 
built, apparently, to last till time and tide shall be no more, for tht- 
walls are of enormous thickness — the contractor’s patriotism, n*^ 
doubt. We enter, and mouse among the thousand and one little 
offices, where the interminable officials keep a truly imperial state, 
but are, we find, surprisingly polite, used as we are to the noble 
independence of officials at home. 

Leaving, we reach, a little further on, the new-old St. John’s 
gate — for it was rebuilt in 1869 by the town council, and exceed- 
ingly well rebuilt too — a sort of shallow, triple tunnel under the 
thick earth-and-stone wall ; a large tunnel for the roadway, and 
two smaller ones for the sidewalks. On one side we ascend a 
narrow stone stairway leading up to an infinitesimal stone room 
over the gate, at the four bare walls of which we gaze with interest 
for a moment, imagining, meanwhile, that we might be David 
mourning over Absalom, and descending to the street, go a few 
steps, and, turning to the right, pass through a narrow gateway 
and the remains of an old wooden stockade, and walk up toward 
the Castle. 

Alter following the narrow roadway through and between the 
lofty, massive walls of stone and earth, and passing several sally- 
ports, and a little vacant place, surrounded by the enormous 
walls, in which a horse is cropping the scanty grass, we come to 
the Chain Gate. Across a deep, narrow cut, turning abruptly to 


204 — A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XXIV. 


the left, is stretched this double gate, made as if of chain mail, a 
sharp reminder to an invading enemy of the probable muskets 
and cannon just around the curve beyond ; and although it is 
open, the effect is as if a grimly angry man was trying to smile — 
crawly, in the neighborhood of one’s spine ; and the frowning 
walls, and gloomy, narrow way, and utter silence, like the silence 
of expectancy, heighten that effect. 

But coming now to the inner gate, the gate of the citadel 
proper, we see Mars at peace, lounging around in his scarlet 
jacket, two Marses, however, playing at war by marching up and 
down as sentries. To a thus playful Mars we present ourselves, 
who turns^us over to an erst-lolling but now briskly-erect Mars 
(we scent a fee), who conducts us across the bare parade ground, 
pointing out the men’s quarters in the wall itself (the stone 
house forming a part of the wall, and being turf-covered), through 
which the chimneys sprout up, the whole arrangement being 
admirably adapted to speedy and uninterrupted mortality among 
the inmates. 

Passing one or two small stone houses — powder-houses, etc. — 
we come to the quarters of the commander-in-chief and the 
officers, a long, low, stone building, with ancient, enormous 
chimneys, built on the edge of the cliff overlooking the river, the 
outer wall being part of the castle wall. H. R. H. the Princess 
Louise and the much-married Lome are at home, as the presence 
of the royal standard indicates — the Governor General takes up 
his quarters here when in Quebec ; but we will not call — we really 
haven’t time. 

The King's Bastion— a semi-circular projection in the castle 
wall, from which we look three hundred and thirty-three feet sheer 
down to the river’s edge. What a noble view ! Before us lies the 
grand river over which ships are sailing and steamers passing up 
and down. Beyond, the high river bank and Point Levi, on 
which the houses of its village cluster ; to the east of which lies 
Fort No. I, to the west Forts Nos. 2 and 3, while beyond again 
stretches the great plain of field, farm, copse and forest, over 
which little villages are scattered, each with its heaven-seeking 
spire : and in the east, dividing the river into the north and south 
channels, sleeps the Isle of Orleans. Away below, at our feet, the 
houses cling like barnacles to the cliff, while at the projecting 


Chap. XXIV. 


CASTLE OF ST. LOUIS.— 205 


wharves large vessels lie in the deep and placid water ; and over 
all arches a sky of summer blue, with here and there light, fleecy 
clouds, as if the cannons’ smoke of all the years gone by still 
hovered far aloft, loth to leave the place of its booming birth. 

Our soldier-guide is communicative. He informs us that 
the castle covers forty acres; that it was rebuilt in 1823 from 
plans authorized by the Duke of Wellington ; that it cost 
$25,000,000 ; that it now belongs to the Dominion government, 
and is garrisoned by two hundred men, of whom twenty-five are 
married ; that the Forts Nos. i, 2 an^ 3 cost $1,000,000 each, and 
that the castle is the second strongest fortress in the world, 
Gibraltar being first. 

So we leave the bastion and its tenant, the great swivel-gun, 
which is ever watching and probably longing for some hostile fleet 
upon which to belch out flame and smoke and ball from its black 
throat, and feeing our guide to his entire satisfaction, reach again 
St. Louis Street, near the St. John’s Gate. Strolling down toward 
the hotel we pass the Law Courts, uncomfortably crowded into a 
large, quaint old building standing a little back from the street, 
which, during his nefarious reign, the Intendant Bigot presented 
to his mistress, the beautiful Madame de Paen. 

Passing by our hotel, we come to the building once the resi- 
dence of the Duke of Kent, the father of Queen Victoria, in which, 
in 1791, he gave those petits soupcrs, presided over by the lovely 
Madame St. Laurent, which electrified Quebec society, and too 
often attained a doubtful celebrity. 

Walking still further toward the river, we reach the Post- 
Office, a handsome building, erected in 1873 site of the old 

building called the Chien d’Or, from the gilt dog which stood 
above the doorway, and which still stands over the doorway of the 
present building, on Buade Street; and underneath it are the 
following lines : 

sms tin chien qui range V os, 

En le rongeant je prends man repos, 

Un temps viendra, qui n' est pas venu, 

Que je mordray qui m' aura mordu." 

In this building, the local guide-book says, “Miles Prentice, 
who had come out as a sergeant in the 78th Regiment, under 


2o6—A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XXIV. 


Wolfe, opened an inn, to which resorted all the fashionables of the 
day, among whom was, in 1782, Captain, afterwards Admiral 
Nelson, then commanding H. M. S. Albemarle, of twenty-six 
guns. Miles had a niece whose charms so captivated the Captain, 
then when his vessel was about sailing from port, he clandestinely 
returned for the purpose of wedding her, which purpose was defeated 
by a merchant who, with the assistance of the boat’s crew, forcibly 
carried the amorous Captain on board his vessel. This timely 
interference gained for England many a glorious victory, and lost 
for Lady Hamilton her good name,” adds the compiler. 

Further on, we come out upon the terrace, a broad, boarded 
esplanade and favorite promenade, part way up the cliff between 
the wharves and the Upper Town. Almost beneath us is the little 
church of Notre Dame des Victoires, with the market-pl^ce and 
the steamers’ wharves beyond. Before us, and on either hand, 
stretches the broad river, sweeping grandly to the sea ; and taking 
a last look up and down — drinking in the strange and varied 
beauty of the scene — we turn toward the hotel. 

The last night of our stay had come, for on the morrow our 
faces were to be turned toward home and, for us two, the real life 
to be begun. What a melancholy time is the last evening of a 
pleasuring ; and yet not wholly so, for anticipations of the loved 
delights of home, homely though they be, rise like growing 
flowers through the already withering herbage of the summer gone. 
Reminiscence sports in mirthful mood among the graver plans for 
time about to be, and what is past grows ever hazier and more 
indistinct, while that which is to come rises of firmer purpose and 
more clearly viewed. Bright pleasuring seems a summer day, to 
be enjoyed in lazy nooks without a thought but for the moment as 
it flies, while all the aim and work of life come like a breath of 
cold yet bracing wind, to set the sluggish blood a-dancing in our 
veins and nerve our thews for strong encounter with the world. 
And so we sat and chatted of pleasures gone, of those to come, of 
plans fulfilled and those yet to be made. And that strange brother- 
hood of travelers’ joys and ills seemed to bind us all more closely, 
as of a nearer kin. 

“ Comrades,” suddenly said the Professor, in a tone as if upon 
the electioneering stump, and clearing his throat nervously, and 
rising to his feet, “ comrades, I have an announcement to make — 


Chap. XXIV. 


THE EXPECTED.— 207 


we have an announcement to m'ake — that will — that may — 
although I hope it won’t — disagreeably I mean — ^that is to say” 
(hurriedly) “ I hope you will be pleased — I know I am, more than 
pleased ” — and stopped short, transfixed by Aunt Hepzibah’s 
eyes, which had caught and were now glaring into his own. 

Aunt Hepzibah slowly rose from her chair, keeping the 
wretched Professor still on spit, and majestically stalked over to 
Aunt Eunice, whose face was like the red, red rose. Then turning 
swiftly, she swooped down upon the upturned ear-trumpet, and in 
an awful voice said, “ Eunice, what does this mean ?” 

All down our spines, like millions of the Professor’s bugs, 
crawled little tingling creeps, and we waited in an intensity of 
expectation for the answer which we already knew. 

And then it was that love, though held within a heart no longer 
young, rose in its might and dared the world. Aunt Eunice arose» 
and taking the Professor’s hand in both her own, said quietly, 
standing by his side, “ We are engaged.” 

Within Aunt Hepzibah’s opened mouth one could almost see 
the torrent of words struggling to escape. But only for an instant. 
Before the calm and almost rapt expression of the quiet face before 
her, from whose white cheeks and steady eyes the staying power 
of love shone forth, it sank and died. The grim mouth slowly 
closed. “You both are certainly of age,” she said at length, and 
sat down. 

A knock just then upon the door — oh blessed interruption! 
“ Come in ! ” said Aunt Hepzibah sharply, and it opened, and 
before us appeared — and hand in hand — Bolus and Victorine. 

“ What is it ? ! ” said Aunt Hepzibah, still more sharply. 

“If you please, me lady, and you, sir,” said Bolus, stiffening 
his neck into his stiffer collar, and addressing her and Uncle 
Robert particularly and the company generally, “me and Mrs. 
Jones, leastways Victorine, as I bought to ’ave said, we were 
thinkin’ as ’ow single blessedness, as it ’adn’t bought to be called, 
wasn’t near so good as double blessedness ; and so, pahssin’ by 
the big church in the square, which it was our hafternoon out, an 4 
seein’ a minister, leastways I should ’ave said a priest, in it, says 
I to Victorine, I says ” 

” Oh inesdames et messieurs," cried Victorine, sinking on her 
knees before the open door (which Bolus carefully shut to behind 


2oS— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. Chap. XXIV. 


her), "Pardon ! Pardon ! His inaniere it ees si grand, si /nag- . 
nifique, like un seig/teur ! I lof him ! I no can more live without 
him ! It must that I say that that /naniere appertains to me ! 
That I am to him ! I ” 

“And so the priest married us, me lady and sir. But it isn’t 
as ’ow it is our hintention to leave you, sir and madam ” (to Aunt 
Eunice), “for as double, sir and madam, we think we’ll be able to 
serve you double,” concluded Bolus. 

* * * * * 

The western sky begins to burn ; the rocky bluffs reflect the 
glow ; the deepening haze upon the fast receding town turns pink 
and crimson and a deeper red ; the castle wall throws back the ^ 
sun’s last beams ; a sunset-gun faintly booms farewell, and the 
ancient, crooked, jumbled, curious, old-world city sinks into the 
darkened east. 

“ Evening red and morning grey, 

Helps the traveler on his way ; 

But evening grey and morning red, 

Brings down rain upon his head.” 

We shall have a fine day to-morrow. 

“John,” said Jemima, as we sat side by side in the sleeper, 
rushing toward the home that each was to make for the other, 
“John, I sometimes wonder if I am I, and I pinch myself to see — 

' and all the pinches cry ‘ John !’ Then they say, astonished like, 
‘Oh my!’ Then I pinch them all again to see why they cry 
‘ John ’ ; and they shout ‘ Love I’ Then I put two and two 
together, and I read, ‘John, oh my Love !’ Then I know that I 
am I — for I love you.” 


/ 



I 


CHAPTER XXV. 
Epilogue. 


It is the twilight hour : day into night 
Fades softly, and the thousand tongues of toil 
Have ceased their clamor, and the quiet streets 
Echo but scattered footsteps homeward bound. 

Upofi the wall the flickering firelight plays, 

And shadows strange, grotesque, born of its flames, 
Hide in the darkened corners, and dart out 
In noiseless sallies, and again retreat 
Within their holds, but to come forth again 
And dance in glee o’er ceiling, wall and floor. 

The crackling flames curl o’er the burning wood. 
And leap and gambol, and make efforts vain 
To scale the wide-mouthed chimney and peer out 
Upon the world. The blazing oak logs hiss. 

And send forth flying sparks with loud report ; 

And as a deeper red their bodies grow. 

Crumble and fall, and in their ruin build 
Bright, fairy castles, turreted and spired. 

That scintillate and glisten as they fall 
To rise again in new and stranger shapes ; 

Deep caves appear, elf-hewn, of sinuous form, 

With stalagmite and stalactite adorned. 

That swarm with silent figures, and with gems 
Sparkle throughout their tiny corridors. 

The flying shadows and the curling flames 
Seem filled with wordless joy ; for ten long years 
Have passed, since solemn words and golden ring 
Made one of twain, and of two separate lives 
Did one blest life incarnate, one great joy. 

Which through the vanished years has known nor jar 
Nor discord, but, as some still stream, has run 


210— A BACHELORS WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XXV. 


^Twixt quiet banks, receiving little brooks 
That tumbling come in noisy turbulence, 

And lose their little cares within its depths. 

Ten years to-night! And yet but for grey threads 
Sprinkled but lightly through the locks of each, 
And lines a little deeper on the brows, 

And cheeks a little faded, and the hands 
Somewhat more thin, with higher-swelling veins. 
And more inured to life, one could not think 
That the two figures there before the fire 
Had seen of married life and cares ten years. 

As lovers sit they ; she with low-bowed head 
Resting upon the shoulder that had borne 
For her the heat and burden of the days 
Throughout these ten long years ; he with his arm 
About her waist, more matronly than when 
He clasped it, and their love’s first burning kiss 
Pressed long upon her shyly willing lips. 

And with his eyes bent down upon her face. 

As beautiful to him now as of yore. 

As beautiful ? more beautiful ; for she 
Whose love for him was mirrored in that face. 
Was his own wife, tried by a thousand tests 
And not found wanting. What to him that time 
Had in some measure marred her rounded form 
As judged by others’ eyes? As youthful grace 
Had fled, another grace, more true, more fair. 

Had shone forth from the eyes, lit up the cheeks, 
Ennobled, beautified the whole anew — 

That grace so fair, so pure, of mother-love. 

As on their faces danced the firelight, he 
Drew closer to him yet the loving form 
So dear to him, and while a sweet content 
Spread wholly o’er his face and lit it up 
With light far brighter than from flickering fire, 
Said softly, bending down his head to touch 
With quiet kiss the brow so calm and white 
That rested on his shoulder, “ My dear love, 


Chap. XXV. 


EPILOGUE.— 2II 


It is ten years to-night 1 Ten years — how short 
And yet how long ! How long when we look back 
Upon the day that made us man and wife, 

And yet how short to measure all the bliss 
That has been ours since that most blessed day.” 

She looked up at him; and the same content 
That brightened all his face shone on hers too, 

And showed more plain than words that to her heart 
That day was counted also blest indeed. 

“ Dear heart” — the hand which lay in his did press 
An answer quick responsive to the words — 

“ Dost thou remember, in that distant time, 

How all our sky seemed dark above our heads, 

Hung thick with clouds that hid our wedded sun ? 
How the long years we feared must intervene 
To bar that present from our shining goal, 

Seemed all so long, so fraught with wretchedness. 
That, though our faith was strong, it almost failed ? 
Till — thou rememb’rest, love ? ” — again the hand 
That lay in his pressed quick a soft response — 

Thou dost remember, on one summer day, 

A cloud came floating through the sunlit blue, 

And for a moment hid the orb of day, 

And turned a sombre face upon our gaze, 

But all around was haloed with the light 
That streamed upon it from the hidden sun. 

And we thus learned that, driven by His will, 

Our sombre cloud should pass from off our sun. 

So, trusting in His guidance, we were led 
Unto that hour gone by ten years to-night; 

When, with our love as deep as on the day 
We told it first within the chestnut grove. 

We knelt before the altar side by side. 

And rose, no more as twain, but one for life.” 

He paused ; and straight the fire which, till this time. 
Had quenched its flames, and stilled the hissing wood. 
And sunk in deep-red embens, not to miss 
A word of all the loving tale he told. 

Sprang into life, and roared up toward the roof. 

And sang in glee, that these two, through such straits. 


/ 


212— A BACHELOR'S WEDDING TRIP. 


Chap. XXK 


Had wedded been at last, and lived to bless 
The house and all around them with their lives. 

And all the shadows too, who, with the fire, 

Had listened with intentest ears, and had — 

Such was their boldness — come from corners dark, 
And hovered round his head, crept to his feet. 

And peered into his face to catch his words, 

Now joined in maddest whirl around the room, 

And chased each other from the ceiling down, 

And sped on noiseless feet across the floor. 

All wild with joy that they too, with the fire. 

Should be existent with these happy lives. 

And when, with welling tears of utter peace 
And full contentment, she about his neck 
Flung both her arms, and pressed her lips to his, 
And strained him to her bosom, then the fire 
Grew dim, and all the shadows clustering round. 
Enfolded them within their sheltering wings. 

To shut out from a love as pure as this 
The baneful contact of a prying world. 

“ And now, my wife — the dearest name on earth — 

Of all our life since that so happy day 
Thou knowest well, for never, to this hour. 

Have we been parted for so long a time 

As one whole day. Our gracious Lord hath blessed 

With many mercies all these ten long years ; 

And though He, for our good, hath chastened us 
With sorrows, yet, strong in our love, upheld 
By it and by His arm, we two have walked 
Adown the hill of life, thus, hand in hand.’^ 

Once more he paused, for there had reached his ear 
A little, sleepy cry. She from his side 
Starts quickly up, and all the mother-love 
Shines in her face. “ It is the baby, dear, 

And I must go, to come back soon,” she said. 

So sat he still before the fire, and gazed 
Upon its embers. But where’er he looked 
He saw nought but her image ; for the fire — 

So well it loved her — built up of its coals 


Ota/ XXV. 


EPILOGUE.— 213 


Nought but her semblance : showed her to his eyes 
Now, as when first he saw her, young and fair, 

With cheeks that bore the sweet contrasted hues 
Of rose and lily, and in maiden grace 
Pictured her to him in remembered scenes, 

Till he too, in its glow, seemed young again, 

Feeling his heart throb as, in bygone days, 

It throbbed at merest sight of her he loved : 

Brought her before him now, as when, one day, 

He saw her lying, and upon her breast. 

Clasped in her arm, a little chubby form ; 

And sa%y the new-born love within her face, 

The doubly tender love, that of the wife 
And mother : now he saw her as she bent 
Above his bed of pain, and smoothed his brow 
With touch so gentle of her soft, cool hand. 

And kissed his burning lips, and with bright words 
Cheered the long hours, and made the darkened room 
Beam brightly with her presence and her smile. 

And now the picture changes and the fire 
Builds of its glowing embers brilliant rooms, 

Filled with a multitude in gay attire : 

And there he sees her, queen of all the feast ; 

The centre of a gay, admiring throng 
Who hang upon her words and smile their praise 
At her bright sallies : but he sees that she 
Looks first for commendation from his eyes ; 

And gaining that — not difficult to gain — 

Looks a contentment that the others’ praise 

Had failed to win, though phrased in honeyed words. 

So many were the pictures that the fire — 

Oh knowing fire ! — held up to his rapt gaze. 

That not until a little laughing face 
Was placed before his own, and its wee lips 
,Had stammered “ Papa,” did he know that she ^ 
Had softly come, and with her, on her arm, 

The youngest of the little brood of three 

That blessed their home and brightened all its rooms 

With their glad faces. Soon close by his side, 

In her accustomed place, he seated her; 


214— A BACHELORS WE BEING TRIP. Chap. XXV, 


And with the little pledge of their great love 
Asleep upon her breast, they spoke again 
Of present and of future ; while the fire 
Beamed on them lovingly, and softly kissed 
The mother and her babe with warmest glow. 

And all the shadows clustered round again, 

And hovered o’er them, and with noiseless wings 
Encircled them, and, with the fire, called down 
Upon their heads all blessings rich and rare ; 
Because by these two lives had been raised up 
A household hearthstone, by whose glowing rays 
They, and whoe’er approached its gracious beams, 
Found love and comfort, peace and happiness. 



SAVOIR VIVRH. 


Anai^ysis of the problem of life reveals no more in- 
teresting nor curious study than that involved in the 
question presented to all men by its very conditions : 
“How to live?” By this is meant not merely the 
physical struggle for existence on our planet, but rather 
those provisional habits which tend to make life suc- 
cessful, both individually and in its social connections. 

Unfortunately even our most thoughtful men, in 
the hurry and urgency of professional or mercantile 
pursuits, often neglect to appreciate the importance 
of these things until life has so far advanced that the 
omissions of the past cannot be supplied by present 
attempts, or else that either ability or opportunity 
are lacking to carry out the belated suggestions of 
experience and observation. 

It has been said that until a man is forty he exists 
for himself, and that after that age he lives for others. 
With increasing knowledge he recognizes the fact that 
■whatever good can be done, or whatever satisfaction 
realized, must come from benefits conferred, rather 
than from advantages obtained. 

The best deserved monuments are not built to 
those whose lives have been spent in gettings but to 
those who have lived for the sake of giving. They 
are for the brave, the unselfish, the devoted. It is 
such as these whose memories gratitude keeps green. 
Not that any man should live for the sake of his own 
monument ; such a life in its career of vanity would 
rarely succeed in accomplishing its own empty object. 
But that a man should so live as to be thought worthy 
of the respect and honor of the good men who survive 


S A VOIR ViVRE. 


him, we all agree to and believe. Undoubtedly the 
greatest weakness that besets many an otherwise 
estimable man is procrastination, that undefined idea 
of something, he knows not what, which makes him 
inertly believe that his advancement or enrichment — 
the needed provision for himself or his household — 
will come in the not distant future, and without his 
own present effort to promote that wished-for end. 
He has a visionary impalpable feeling that success 
awaits him at some yet undiscovered turn in his career, 
and that he has but as heretofore, to continue his 
indefinite path to come up with it ; or he flatters his 
fancy with the idea that some special opportunity will 
present itself to enable him to seize, with sudden grasp, 
the prize for which others throughout a lifetime must 
contend. 

Such men mean well in lives which nevertheless 
are too often barren of good. They are not so narrow 
as they are improvident. They are emphatically of 
the sort which never are but always to be blessed. 

Again, the open-handed, generous way of living 
which marks the course of many men who are esteemed 
by their fellows and ofttimes admired is likewise to be 
condemned, as not only unphilosophical but almost 
carelessly criminal. A sad instance of the weakness 
and folly of such a reckless life was illustrated but a 
few days ago in the daily press. A man, well and 
kindly known, had shot himself, leaving — and it was 
all he did leave — to his widow a tearful farewell in 
which this passage occurs : 

“ Life has been a struggle with me. I am near 
its end. You have been a true and noble woman and 
have borne with me patiently. I have been a busy 
man — generous to a fault ; my heart has been bigger 
than my purse ; no one has ever been turned away 
from me in hunger, and many of those have been 


Savoir Vivre. 


aided who had no claim on my charity. I leave my 
dear wife in the hands of her good and precious God.” 

Now this man’s economy began when, life ending, 
he turned the care of his wife over to the Lord. Gen- 
erosity is always admirable, but that reckless liberality 
of life which leaves a starving family to the ‘ ‘ care of 
the Lord ” may well make the judicious grieve, and 
should cause its previous participants to shudder. 

Death is the unrelenting sneer which mocking 
Nature casts at life. It is indeed appointed unto all 
men, but how few meet that fell appointment prepared 
either to go or to leave behind them those who remain 
to mourn. 

When it was reported of that clever but selfish 
diplomat, Talleyrand, that on his death-bed he had 
received the consolations of the church, a witty 
French woman exclaimed, “Well, at last he dies like 
a man who understands living.” 

Civilization and her daughter Science have found 
the means whereby the dying may depart with the 
deep and earnest consolation that they leave behind 
them a secure provision for those whose trusting love 
and dependence have been a true source of earthly 
happiness. In life as in death they proved how well 
indeed they knew to live. 

By this means one hundred thousand human lives 
are joined in the continuance of a fund to which they 
yearly contribute twenty millions of dollars, and all 
to prove how nobly they understand living for the 
sakes of their nearest and dearest ones. This fund, 
established over forty years ago, has accumulated 
and paid out to its contributors the enormous amount 
of over two hundred and fifty millions of dollars. 
The deaths of the men who founded this wonderful 
enterprise were not expedited by their own hands, 
and the Providence to whose care their families were 


S A VOIR ViVRE. 


left was supplemented through their own loving pro- 
vision by the ready means which a cold world demands 
for the support of the widow and the orphan. 

This great Fund — steadily and solidly growing and 
still steadily disbursing — now amounts to one hundred 
and twenty millions of dollars, safely and profitably 
invested. It constitutes the assets of the greatest 
financial institution in all the world — The Mutual Life 
Insurance Company of New York. Those who live 
insured in it live well to that extent, and those who 
die insured by it die to live enshrined in the grateful 
memories of their loving and best beloved. 











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